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LIBRARY 

UNIVEBS  TY  OF 
CA:  '.FORNiA 
SAN  DIEGO 


li  —  -  __        ^A^ 


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Is 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED 


Copyright,  1899,  by  H.  M.  Caldwell  Co. 

"•Not  blind!    I  won't  have  him  blind.'" 


Eije  Ciflilt  fiat  fmkts 


1Ebt  VBorkg  of 


^Dubltsljcb  bv 

QKje  Greenock  $re&; 

Boston  &tto  £ork 


DEDICATION 

If  I  were  hanged  on  the  highest  hill, 
Mother  o  mine,  O  mother  o'  mine! 

I  know  whose  love  would  follow  me  still, 
Mother  S  mine,  O  mother  o'  mine  ! 

If  I  were  drowned  in  the  deepest  sea, 
Mother  o'  mine,  O  mother  o'  mine! 

I  know  whose  tears  would  come  down  to  me, 
Mother  o'  mine,  O  mother  o'  mine! 

If  I  were  damned  of  body  and  soul, 
I  know  whose  prayers  would  make  me  whole, 
Mother  o'  mine,  O  mother  o'  mine  I 


PREFACE 

This  is  the  story  of  The  Light  that  Failed  as 
it  was  originally  conceived  by  the  Writer. 

S.UDYARD  Kipling. 


CHAPTER  I 

So  we  settled  it  all  when  the  storm  was  done 

As  comfy  as  comfy  could  be ; 
And  I  was  to  wait  in  the  barn,  my  dears. 

Because  I  was  only  three, 
And  Teddy  would  run  to  the  rainbow's  foot, 

Because  he  was  five  and  a  man ; 
And  that's  how  it  all  began,  my  dears, 

And  that's  how  it  all  began. 

— Big  Barn  Storus. 

t(\  \  THAT  do  you  think  she'd  do  if  she  caught 
VV  us?  We  oughtn't  to  have  it,  you 
know,"  said  Maisie. 

"  Beat  me,  and  lock  you  up  in  your  bedroom," 
Dick  answered,  without  hesitation.  "  Have  you 
got  the  cartridges  ?  " 

"  Yes;  they're  in  my  pocket,  but  they  are  jog- 
gling horribly.  Do  pin-fire  cartridges  go  off  of 
their  own  accord  ?  " 

"Don't  know.  Take  the  revolver,  if  you  are 
afraid,  and  let  me  carry  them." 

' '  I'm  not  afraid. "  Maisie  strode  forward  swiftly, 
a  hand  in  her  pocket  and  her  chin  in  the  air. 
Dick  followed  with  a  small  pin-fire  revolver. 

The  children  had  discovered  that  their  lives 
would  be  unendurable  without  pistol-practice. 
After  much  forethought  and  self-denial,  Dick  had 
9 


to  The  Light  that  Failed 

saved  seven  shillings  and  sixpence,  the  price  of  a 
badly-constructed  Belgian  revolver.  Maisie  could 
only  contribute  half  a  crown  to  the  syndicate  for 
the  purchase  of  a  hundred  cartridges.  "  You  can 
save  better  than  I  can,  Dick,"  she  explained;  "I 
like  nice  things  to  eat,  and  it  doesn't  matter  to 
you.     Besides,  boys  ought  to  do  these  things." 

Dick  grumbled  a  little  at  the  arrangement,  but 
went  out  and  made  the  purchases,  which  the 
children  were  then  on  their  way  to  test.  Revol- 
vers did  not  lie  in  the  scheme  of  their  daily  life  as 
decreed  for  them  by  the  guardian  who  was  in- 
correctly supposed  to  stand  in  the  place  of  a 
mother  to  these  two  orphans.  Dick  had  been 
under  her  care  for  six  years,  during  which  time 
she  had  made  her  profit  of  the  allowances  sup- 
posed to  be  expended  on  his  clothes,  and,  partly 
through  thoughtlessness,  partly  through  a  nat- 
ural desire  to  pain, — she  was  a  widow  of  some 
years  anxious  to  marry  again, — had  made  his 
days  burdensome  on  his  young  shoulders. 
Where  he  had  looked  for  love,  she  gave  him 
first  aversion  and  then  hate.  Where  he,  grow- 
ing older,  had  sought  a  little  sympathy,  she 
gave  him  ridicule.  The  many  hours  that  she 
could  spare  from  the  ordering  of  her  small  house 
ihe  devoted  to  what  she  called  the  home-training 
of  Dick  Heldar.  Her  religion,  manufactured  in 
the  main  by  her  own  intelligence  and  a  keen  study 


The  Light  that  Failed  II 

of  the  Scriptures,  was  an  aid  to  her  in  this  mat- 
ter. At  such  times  as  she  herself  was  not  per- 
sonally displeased  with  Dick,  she  left  him  to  un- 
derstand that  he  had  a  heavy  account  to  settle 
with  his  Creator;  wherefore  Dick  learned  to  loathe 
his  God  as  intensely  as  he  loathed  Mrs.  Jennett; 
and  this  is  not  a  wholesome  frame  of  mind  for 
the  young.  Since  she  chose  to  regard  him  as  a 
hopeless  liar,  when  dread  of  pain  drove  him  to 
his  first  untruth  he  naturally  developed  into  a  liar, 
but  an  economical  and  self-contained  one,  never 
throwing  away  the  least  unnecessary  fib,  and 
never  hesitating  at  the  blackest,  were  it  only 
plausible,  that  might  make  his  life  a  little  easier. 
The  treatment  taught  him  at  least  the  power  of 
living  alone, — a  power  that  was  of  service  to  him 
when  he  went  to  a  public  school  and  the  boys 
laughed  at  his  clothes,  which  were  poor  in  quality 
and  much  mended.  In  the  holidays  he  returned 
to  the  teachings  of  Mrs.  Jennett,  and,  that  the 
chain  of  discipline  might  not  be  weakened  by  as- 
sociation with  the  world,  was  generally  beaten, 
on  one  count  or  another,  before  he  had  been 
twelve  hours  under  her  roof. 

The  autumn  of  one  year  brought  him  a  com- 
panion in  bondage,  a  long-haired,  grey-eyed  lit- 
tle atom,  as  self-contained  as  himself,  who  moved 
about  the  house  silently  and  for  the  first  few 
weeks  spoke  only  to  the  goat  that  was  her  chief- 


12  The  Light  thai  Failed 

est  friend  on  earth  and  lived  in  the  back-garden. 
Mrs.  Jennett  objected  to  the  goat  on  the  grounds 
that  he  was  un-Christian, — which  he  certainly 
was.  "Then,"  said  the  atom,  choosing  her 
words  very  deliberately,  "I  shall  write  to  my 
lawyer-peoples  and  tell  them  that  you  are  a  very 
bad  woman.  Amomma  is  mine,  mine,  mine!" 
Mrs.  Jennett  made  a  movement  to  the  hall,  where 
certain  umbrellas  and  canes  stood  in  a  rack.  The 
atom  understood  as  clearly  as  Dick  what  this 
meant.  "I  have  been  beaten  before,"  she  said, 
still  in  the  same  passionless  voice;  "I  have  been 
beaten  worse  than  you  can  ever  beat  me.  If  you 
beat  me  I  shall  write  to  my  lawyer-peoples  and 
tell  them  that  you  do  not  give  me  enough  to  eat. 
I  am  not  afraid  of  you."  Mrs.  Jennett  did  not  go 
into  the  hall,  and  the  atom,  after  a  pause  to  assure 
herself  that  all  danger  of  war  was  past,  went  out, 
to  weep  bitterly  on  Amomma's  neck. 

Dick  learned  to  know  her  as  Maisie,  and  at  first 
mistrusted  her  profoundly,  for  he  feared  that  she 
might  interfere  with  the  small  liberty  of  action 
left  to  him.  She  did  not,  however;  and  she  vol- 
unteered no  friendliness  until  Dick  had  taken  the 
first  steps.  Long  before  the  holidays  were  over, 
the  stress  of  punishment  shared  in  common  drove 
the  children  together,  if  it  were  only  to  play  into 
each  other's  hands  as  they  prepared  lies  for  Mrs. 
Jennett's  use.    When  Dick  returned  to  school, 


The  Light  that  Failed  13 

Maisie  whispered,  "Now  I  shall  be  all  alone  to 
take  care  of  myself;  but,"  and  she  nodded  her 
head  bravely,  "  I  can  do  it.  You  promised  to 
send  Amomma  a  grass  collar.  Send  it  soon." 
A  week  later  she  asked  for  that  collar  by  return 
of  post,  and  was  not  pleased  when  she  learned 
that  it  took  time  to  make.  When  at  last  Dick 
forwarded  the  gift  she  forgot  to  thank  him  for  it. 

Many  holidays  had  come  and  gone  since  that 
day,  and  Dick  had  grown  into  a  lanky  hobblede- 
hoy more  than  ever  conscious  of  his  bad  clothes. 
Not  for  a  moment  had  Mrs.  Jennett  relaxed  her 
tender  care  of  him,  but  the  average  canings  of  a 
public  school — Dick  fell  under  punishment  about 
three  times  a  month — filled  him  with  contempt 
for  her  powers.  "She  doesn't  hurt,"  he  ex- 
plained to  Maisie,  who  urged  him  to  rebellion, 
"and  she  is  kinder  to  you  after  she  has  whacked 
me."  Dick  shambled  through  the  days  unkept 
in  body  and  savage  in  soul,  as  the  smaller  boys 
of  the  school  learned  to  know,  for  when  the 
spirit  moved  him  he  would  hit  them,  cunningly 
and  with  science.  The  same  spirit  made  him 
more  than  once  try  to  tease  Maisie,  but  the  girl 
refused  to  be  made  unhappy.  "We  are  both 
miserable  as  it  is,"  said  she.  "  What  is  the  use  of 
trying  to  make  things  worse  ?  Let's  find  things 
to  do,  and  forget  things." 

The  pistol  was  the  outcome  of  that  search.    It 


14  The  Light  that  Failed 

could  only  be  used  on  the  muddiest  foreshore  of 
the  beach,  far  away  from  bathing-machines  and 
pier-heads,  below  the  grassy  slopes  of  Fort  Keel- 
ing. The  tide  ran  out  nearly  two  miles  on  that 
coast  and  the  many-colored  mud-banks,  touched 
by  the  sun,  sent  up  a  lamentable  smell  of  dead 
weed.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Dick 
and  Maisie  arrived  on  their  ground,  Amommt 
trotting  patiently  behind  them. 

"  Mf !  "  said  Maisie,  sniffing  the  air.  "  I  wonder 
what  makes  the  sea  so  smelly.     I  don't  like  it." 

"You  never  like  anything  that  isn't  made  just 
for  you,"  said  Dick,  bluntly.  "Give  me  the 
cartridges,  and  I'll  try  first  shot.  How  far  does 
one  of  these  little  revolvers  carry  ?  " 

"Oh,  half  a  mile,"  said  Maisie,  promptly.  "At 
least  it  makes  an  awful  noise.  Be  careful  with 
the  cartridges;  I  don't  like  those  jagged  stick-up 
things  on  the  rim.     Dick,  do  be  careful." 

"All  right.  I  know  how  to  load.  I'll  fire  at 
the  breakwater  out  there." 

He  fired,  and  Amomma  ran  away  bleating.  The 
bullet  threw  up  a  spurt  of  mud  to  the  right  of  the 
weed-wreathed  piles. 

"Throws  high  and  to  the  right.  You  try, 
Maisie.     Mind,  it's  loaded  all  round." 

Maisie  took  the  pistol  and  stepped  delicately  to 
the  verge  of  the  mud,  her  hand  firmly  closed  on 
the  butt,  her  mouth  and  left  eye  screwed  up. 


The  Light  that  Failed  15 

Dick  sat  down  on  a  tuft  of  bank  and  laughed. 
Amomma  returned  very  cautiously.  He  was  ac- 
customed to  strange  experiences  in  his  afternoon 
walks,  and,  finding  the  cartridge-box  unguarded, 
made  investigations  with  his  nose.  Maisie  fired, 
but  could  not  see  where  the  bullet  went. 

"1  think  it  hit  the  post,"  she  said,  shading  her 
eyes  and  looking  out  across  the  sailless  sea. 

"  I  know  it  has  gone  out  to  the  Marazion  Bell 
Buoy,"  said  Dick,  with  a  chuckle.  "Fire  low 
and  to  the  left;  then  perhaps  you'll  get  it.  Oh, 
look  at  Amomma! — he's  eating  the  cartridges!" 

Maisie  turned,  the  revolver  in  her  hand,  just  in 
time  to  see  Amomma  scampering  away  from  the 
pebbles  Dick  threw  after  him.  Nothing  is  sacred 
to  a  billy-goat.  Being  well  fed  and  the  adored 
of  his  mistress,  Amomma  had  naturally  swal- 
lowed two  loaded  pin-fire  cartridges.  Maisie 
hurried  up  to  assure  herself  that  Dick  had  not 
miscounted  the  tale. 

"Yes,  he's  eaten  two." 

44  Horrid  little  beast!  Then  they'll  joggle  about 
inside  him  and  blow  up,  and  serve  him  right. 
.    .    .    Oh,  Dick!  have  1  killed  you?"  . 

Revolvers  are  tricky  things  for  young  hands  to 
deal  with.  Maisie  could  not  explain  how  it  had 
happened,  but  a  veil  of  reeking  smoke  separated 
her  from  Dick,  and  she  was  quite  certain  that  the 
pistol  had  gone  off  in  his  face.    Then  she  heard 


1 6  The  Light  that  Failed 

him  sputter,  and  dropped  on  her  knees  beside 
him,  crying,  "Dick,  you  aren't  hurt,  are  you?  I 
didn't  mean  it." 

"Of  course  you  didn't,"  said  Dick,  coming  out 
of  the  smoke  and  wiping  his  cheek.  "  But  you 
nearly  blinded  me.  That  powder  stuff  stings 
awfully."  A  neat  little  splash  of  grey  lead  on  a 
stone  showed  where  the  bullet  had  gone.  Maisie 
began  to  whimper. 

"Don't,"  said  Dick,  jumping  to  his  feet  and 
shaking  himself.     "  I'm  not  a  bit  hurt." 

"No,  but  I  might  have  killed  you,"  protested 
Maisie,  the  corners  of  her  mouth  drooping. 
"What  should  I  have  done  then ?" 

"Gone  home  and  told  Mrs.  Jennett."  Dick 
grinned  at  the  thought;  then,  softening,  "  Please 
don't  worry  about  it.  Beside,  we  are  wasting 
time.  We've  got  to  get  back  to  tea.  I'll  take 
the  revolver  for  a  bit." 

Maisie  would  have  wept  on  the  least  encour- 
agement, but  Dick's  indifference,  albeit  his  hand 
was  shaking  as  he  picked  up  the  pistol,  restrained 
her.  She  lay  panting  on  the  beach  while  Dick 
methodically  bombarded  the  breakwater.  "Got 
it  at  last! "  he  exclaimed,  as  a  lock  of  weed  flew 
from  the  wood. 

" Let  me  try,"  said  Maisie,  imperiously.  "I'm 
all  right  now." 

They  fired  in  turns  till  the  rickety  little  revolver 


The  Light  that  Failed  17 

nearly  shook  itself  to  pieces,  and  Amomma  the 
outcast — because  he  might  blow  up  at  any  mo- 
ment— browsed  in  the  background  and  wondered 
why  stones  were  thrown  at  him.  Then  they 
found  a  balk  of  timber  floating  in  a  pool  which 
was  commanded  by  the  seaward  slope  of  Fort 
Keeling,  and  they  sat  down  together  before  this 
new  target. 

"Next  holidays,"  said  Dick,  as  the  now  thor- 
oughly fouled  revolver  kicked  wildly  in  his  hand, 
"we'll  get  another  pistol, — central  fire, — that 
will  carry  farther." 

"There  won't  be  any  next  holidays  for  me," 
said  Maisie.     "  I'm  going  away." 

"  Where  to  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  My  lawyers  have  written  to 
Mrs.  Jennett,  and  I've  got  to  be  educated  some- 
where,— in  France,  perhaps,  —  I  don't  know 
where;  but  I  shall  be  glad  to  go  away." 

"  I  shan't  like  it  a  bit.  I  suppose  I  shall  be  left. 
Look  here,  Maisie,  is  it  really  true  you're  going  ? 
Then  these  holidays  will  be  the  last  I  shall  see 
anything  of  you ;  and  I  go  back  to  school  next 
week.    I  wish  " — 

The  young  blood  turned  his  cheeks  scarlet. 
Maisie  was  picking  grass-tufts  and  throwing 
them  down  the  slope  at  a  yellow  sea-poppy 
nodding  all  by  itself  to  the  illimitable  levels  of 
the  mud-flats  and  the  milk-white  sea  beyond. 


18  The  Light  thai  Failed 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "that  I 
could  see  you  again  some  time.  You  wish  that 
too?" 

"Yes,  but  it  would  have  been  better  if — if — 
you  had — shot  straight  over  there — down  by  the 
breakwater." 

Maisie  looked  with  large  eyes  for  a  moment. 
And  this  was  the  boy  who  only  ten  days  before 
had  decorated  Amomma's  horns  with  cut-paper 
ham-frills  and  turned  him  out,  a  bearded  derision, 
among  the  public  ways!  Then  she  dropped  her 
eyes:  this  was  not  the  boy. 

"Don't  be  stupid,"  she  said,  reprovingly,  and 
with  swift  instinct  attacked  the  side-issue. 
"  How  selfish  you  are!  Just  think  what  I  should 
have  felt  if  that  horrid  thing  had  killed  you!  I'm 
quite  miserable  enough  already." 

"Why?  Because  you're  going  away  from 
Mrs.  Jennett?" 

"No." 

"  From  me,  then  ?  " 

No  answer  for  a  long  time.  Dick  dared  not 
look  at  her.  He  felt,  though  he  did  not  know, 
all  that  the  past  four  years  had  been  to  him,  and 
this  the  more  acutely  since  he  had  no  knowledge 
to  put  his  feelings  in  words. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.     "I  suppose  it  is." 

"Maisie,  you  must  know.  I'm  not  suppos- 
ing." 


The  Light  that  Failed  19 

"Let's  go  home,"  said  Maisie,  weakly. 

But  Dick  was  not  minded  to  retreat. 

"I  can't  say  things,"  he  pleaded,  "and  I'm 
awfully  sorry  for  teasing  you  about  Amomma  the 
other  day.  It's  all  different  now,  Maisie,  can't 
you  see?  And  you  might  have  told  me  that  you 
were  going,  instead  of  leaving  me  to  find  out." 

"You  didn't.  I  did  tell.  Oh,  Dick,  what's 
the  use  of  worrying?" 

"There  isn't  any;  but  we've  been  together 
years  and  years,  and  I  didn't  know  how  much  I 
cared." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  ever  did  care." 

"No,  I  didn't;  but  I  do, — I  care  awfully  now, 
Maisie,"  he  gulped, — "Maisie,  darling,  say  you 
care  too,  please." 

"I  do;  indeed  I  do;  but  it  won't  be  any  use." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  am  going  away." 

"Yes,  but  if  you  promise  before  you  go. 
Only  say — will  you?"  A  second  "darling" 
came  to  his  lips  more  easily  than  the  first.  There 
were  few  endearments  in  Dick's  home  or  school 
life;  he  had  to  find  them  by  instinct.  Dick 
caught  the  little  hand  blackened  with  the  escaped 
gas  of  the  revolver. 

"  I  promise,"  she  said,  solemnly;  "but  if  I  care 
there  is  no  need  for  promising." 

"  And  you  do  care  ?  "    For  the  first  time  in  the 


20  The  Light  that  Failed 

last  few  minutes  their  eyes  met  and  spoke  for 
them  who  had  no  skill  in  speech.     .     .     . 

"Oh,  Dick,  don't!  please  don't!  It  was  all 
right  when  we  said  good-morning;  but  now  it's 
all  different!"  Amomma  looked  on  from  afar. 
He  had  seen  his  property  quarrel  frequently,  but 
he  had  never  seen  kisses  exchanged  before.  The 
yellow  sea-poppy  was  wiser,  and  nodded  its 
head  approvingly.  Considered  as  a  kiss,  that 
was  a  failure,  but  since  it  was  the  first,  other 
than  those  demanded  by  duty,  in  all  the  world 
that  either  had  ever  given  or  taken,  it  opened  to 
them  new  worlds,  and  every  one  of  them  glo- 
rious, so  that  they  were  lifted  above  the  consider- 
ation of  any  worlds  at  all,  especially  those  in 
which  tea  is  necessary,  and  sat  still,  holding  each 
other's  hands  and  saying  not  a  word. 

"You  can't  forget  now,"  said  Dick  at  last. 
There  was  that  on  his  cheek  that  stung  more  than 
gunpowder. 

"1  shouldn't  have  forgotten  anyhow,"  said 
Maisie,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  and  saw 
that  each  was  changed  from  the  companion  of 
an  hout  ago  to  a  wonder  and  a  mystery  they 
could  not  understand.  The  sun  began  to  set,  and 
a  night-wind  thrashed  along  the  bents  of  the  fore- 
shore. 

"We  shall  be  awfully  late  for  tea,"  said 
Maisie-     "  Let's  go  home." 


The  Light  that  Failed  21 

"  Let's  use  the  rest  of  the  cartridges  first,"  said 
Dick;  and  he  helped  Maisie  down  the  slope  of 
the  fort  to  the  sea, — a  descent  that  she  was  quite 
capable  of  covering  at  full  speed.  Equally  gravely 
Maisie  took  the  grimy  hand.  Dick  bent  forward 
clumsily;  Maisie  drew  the  hand  away,  and  Dick 
blushed. 

"  It's  very  pretty,"  he  said. 

"Pooh!"  said  Maisie,  with  a  little  laugh  of 
gratified  vanity.  She  stood  close  to  Dick  as  he 
loaded  the  revolver  for  the  last  time  and  fired  over 
the  sea  with  a  vague  notion  at  the  back  of  his 
head  that  he  was  protecting  Maisie  from  all  the 
evils  in  the  world.  A  puddle  far  across  the  mud 
caught  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  and  turned  into  a 
wrathful  red  disc.  The  light  held  Dick's  attention 
for  a  moment,  and  as  he  raised  his  revolver  there 
fell  upon  him  a  renewed  sense  of  the  miraculous, 
in  that  he  was  standing  by  Maisie  who  had 
promised  to  care  for  him  for  an  indefinite  length 
of  time  till  such  date  as —  A  gust  of  the 
growing  wind  drove  the  girl's  long  black  hair 
across  his  face  as  she  stood  with  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder  calling  Amomma  "a  little  beast,"  and 
for  a  moment  he  was  in  the  dark, — a  darkness 
that  stung.  The  bullet  went  singing  out  to  the 
empty  sea. 

"Spoiled  my  aim,"  said  he,  shaking  his  head. 
"There   aren't  any  more  cartridges;  we  shall 


22  The  Light  that  Failed 

have  to  run  home."  But  they  did  not  run.  They 
walked  very  slowly,  arm  in  arm.  And  it  was  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  them  whether  the 
neglected  Amomma  with  two  pin-fire  cartridges 
in  his  inside  blew  up  or  trotted  beside  them;  for 
they  had  come  into  a  golden  heritage  and  were 
disposing  of  it  with  all  the  wisdom  of  all  their 
years. 

"And  I  shall  be" —  quoth  Dick,  valiantly. 
Then  he  checked  himself:  "I  don't  know  what  I 
shall  be.  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  pass  any 
exams.,  but  I  can  make  awful  caricatures  of  the 
masters.     Ho!  ho! " 

"Be  an  artist,  then,"  said  Maisie.  "You're 
always  laughing  at  my  trying  to  draw;  and  it 
will  do  you  good." 

"I'll  never  laugh  at  anything  you  do,"  he 
answered.     "  I'll  be  an  artist,  and  I'll  do  things." 

"Artists  always  want  money,  don't  they?" 

"  I've  got  a  hundred  and  twenty  younds  a  year 
g»f  my  own.  My  guardians  tell  me  I'm  to  have  it 
when  I  come  of  age.  That  will  be  enough  to 
begin  with." 

"Ah,  I'm  rich,"  said  Maisie.  "I've  got  three 
hundred  a  year  all  my  own  when  I'm  twenty-one. 
That's  why  Mrs.  Jennett  is  kinder  to  me  than 
she  is  to  you.  I  wish,  though,  that  I  had  some- 
body that  belonged  to  me, — just  a  father  or  a 
another." 


The  Light  that  Failed  23 

"You  belong  to  me,"  said  Dick,  "forever  and 
ever." 

"Yes,  we  belong — forever.  It's  very  nice." 
She  squeezed  his  arm.  The  kindly  darkness  hid 
them  both,  and,  emboldened  because  he  could  only 
just  see  the  profile  of  Maisie's  cheek  with  the  long 
lashes  veiling  the  grey  eyes,  Dick  at  the  front 
door  delivered  himself  of  the  words  he  had  been 
boggling  over  for  the  last  two  hours. 

"And  I — love  you,  Maisie,"  he  said,  in  a 
whisper  that  seemed  to  him  to  ring  across  the 
world, — the  world  that  he  would  to-morrow  or 
next  day  set  out  to  conquer. 

There  was  a  scene,  not,  for  the  sake  of  dis- 
cipline, to  be  reported,  when  Mrs.  Jennett  would 
have  fallen  upon  him,  first  for  disgraceful  un- 
punctuality,  and  secondly  for  nearly  killing  him- 
self with  a  forbidden  weapon. 

"  I  was  playing  with  it,  and  it  went  off  by 
itself,"  said  Dick,  when  the  powder-pocked 
cheek  could  no  longer  be  hidden,  "but  if  you 
think  you're  going  to  lick  me  you're  wrong. 
You  are  never  going  to  touch  me  again.  Sit 
down  and  give  me  my  tea.  You  can't  cheat  us 
out  of  that,  anyhow." 

Mrs.  Jennett  gasped  and  became  livid.  Maisie 
said  nothing,  but  encouraged  Dick  with  her  eyes, 
and  he  behaved  abominably  all  that  evening. 
Mrs.  Jennett  prophesied  an  immediate  judgment 


24  The  Light  that  Failed 

of  Providence  and  a  descent  into  Tophet  later, 
but  Dick  walked  in  Paradise  and  would  not  hear. 
Only  when  he  was  going  to  bed  Mrs.  Jennett 
recovered  and  asserted  herself.  He  had  bidden 
Maisie  good-night  with  down-dropped  eyes  and 
from  a  distance. 

"If  you  aren't  a  gentleman  you  might  try  to 
behave  like  one,"  said  Mrs.  Jennett,  spitefully. 
"You've  been  quarreling  with  Maisie  again." 

This  meant  that  the  usual  good-night  kiss  had 
been  omitted.  Maisie,  white  to  the  lips,  thrust 
her  cheek  forward  with  a  fine  air  of  indifference, 
and  was  duly  pecked  by  Dick,  who  tramped  out 
of  the  room  red  as  fire.  That  night  he  dreamed 
a  wild  dream.  He  had  won  all  the  world  and 
brought  it  to  Maisie  in  a  cartridge-box,  but  she 
turned  it  over  with  her  foot,  and,  instead  of  say- 
ing, "Thank  you,"  cried  — 

"Where  is  the  grass  collar  you  promised  for 
Amomma?    Oh,  how  selfish  you  are!  " 


CHAPTER  II 

Then  we  brought  the  lances  down,  then  the  bugles  blew, 
When  we  went  to  Kandahar,  ridin'  two  an'  two, 
Ridin',  ridin',  ridin,1  two  an'  two, 
Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra, 
Ail  the  way  to  Kandahar,  ridin'  two  an'  two. 

— Barrack-Room  Ballad. 

"I'm  not  angry  with  the  British  public,  but  I 
wish  we  had  a  few  thousand  of  them  scattered 
among  these  rocks.  They  wouldn't  be  in  such  a 
hurry  to  get  at  their  morning  papers  then.  Can't 
you  imagine  the  regulation  householder — Lover 
of  Justice,  Constant  Reader,  Paterfamilias,  and 
all  that  lot — frizzling  on  hot  gravel?" 

"With  a  blue  veil  over  his  head,  and  his 
clothespin  strips.  Has  any  man  here  a  needle? 
I've  got  a  piece  of  sugar-sack." 

"I'll  lend  you  a  packing-needle  for  six  square 
inches  of  it  then.  Both  my  knees  are  worn 
through." 

"  Why  not  six  square  acres,  while  you're  about 
it  ?  But  lend  me  the  needle,  and  I'll  see  what  I 
can  do  with  the  selvage.  I  don't  think  there's 
enough  to  protect  my  royal  body  from  the  cold 
blast  as  it  is.  What  are  you  doing  with  that 
everlasting  sketch-book  of  yours,  Dick?" 

*5 


a6  The  Light  that  Failed 

"Study  of  our  Special  Correspondent  repairing 
his  wardrobe,"  said  Dick,  gravely,  as  the  other 
man  kicked  off  a  pair  of  sorely-worn  riding- 
breeches  and  began  to  fit  a  square  of  coarse 
canvas  over  the  most  obvious  open  space.  He 
grunted  disconsolately  as  the  vastness  of  the  void 
developed  itself. 

"Sugar-bags,  indeed!  Hi!  you  pilot-man 
there!  lend  me  all  the  sails  of  that  whale-boat." 

A  fez-crowned  head  bobbed  up  in  the  stern- 
sheets,  divided  itself  into  exact  halves  with  one 
flashing  grin,  and  bobbed  down  again.  The 
man  of  the  tattered  breeches,  clad  only  in  a  Nor- 
folk jacket  and  a  grey  flannel  shirt,  went  on  with 
his  clumsy  sewing,  while  Dick  chuckled  over  the 
sketch. 

Some  twenty  whale-boats  were  nuzzling  a 
sand-bank  which  was  dotted  with  English  sol- 
diery of  half  a  dozen  corps,  bathing  or  washing 
their  clothes.  A  heap  of  boat-rollers,  commissa- 
riat-boxes, sugar-bags,  and  flour-  and  small-arm- 
ammunition-cases  showed  where  one  of  the 
whale-boats  had  been  compelled  to  unload  has- 
tily; and  a  regimental  carpenter  was  swearing 
aloud  as  he  tried,  on  a  wholly  insufficient  allow- 
ance of  white  lead,  to  plaster  up  the  sun-parched 
gaping  seams  of  the  boat  herself. 

"First  the  bloomin'  rudder  snaps,"  said  he  to 
the  world  in  general;  "then  the  mast  goes;  an' 


The  Light  that  Failed  27 

then,  s'  'elp  me,  when  she  can't  do  nothin'  else, 
she  opens  'erself  out  like  a  cock-eyed  Chinese 
lotus." 

"Exactly  the  case  with  my  breeches,  whoever 
you  are,"  said  the  tailor,  without  looking  up. 
"  Dick,  1  wonder  when  I  shall  see  a  decent  shop 
again." 

There  was  no  answer,  save  the  incessant  angry 
murmur  of  the  Nile  as  it  raced  round  a  basalt- 
walled  bend  and  foamed  across  a  rock-ridge  half 
a  mile  up-stream.  It  was  as  though  the  brown 
weight  of  the  river  would  drive  the  white  men 
back  to  their  own  country.  The  indescribable 
scent  of  Nile  mud  in  the  air  told  that  the  stream 
was  falling  and  that  the  next  few  miles  would 
be  no  light  thing  for  the  whale-boats  to  over- 
pass. The  desert  ran  down  almost  to  the  banks, 
where,  among  grey,  red,  and  black  hillocks,  a 
camel-corps  was  encamped.  No  man  dared 
even  for  a  day  lose  touch  of  the  slow-moving 
boats;  there  had  been  no  fighting  for  weeks  past, 
and  throughout  all  that  time  the  Nile  had  never 
spared  them.  Rapid  had  followed  rapid,  rock 
rock,  and  island-group  island-group,  till  the  rank 
and  file  had  long  since  lost  all  count  of  direction 
and  very  nearly  of  time.  They  were  moving 
somewhere,  they  did  not  know  why,  to  do 
something,  they  did  not  know  what.  Before 
them  lay  the  Nile,  and  at  the  other  end  of  it  was 


28  The  Light  that  Failed 

one  Gordon,  fighting  for  the  dear  life,  in  a  town 
called  Khartoum.  There  were  columns  of  Brit- 
ish troops  in  the  desert,  or  in  one  of  the  many 
deserts;  there  were  columns  on  the  river;  there 
were  yet  more  columns  waiting  to  embark  on 
the  river;  there  were  fresh  drafts  waiting  at  As- 
sioot  and  Assuan;  there  were  lies  and  rumors 
running  over  the  face  of  the  hopeless  land  from 
Suakin  to  the  Sixth  Cataract,  and  men  supposed 
generally  that  there  must  be  some  one  in  author- 
ity to  direct  the  general  scheme  of  the  many 
movements.  The  duty  of  that  particular  river- 
column  was  to  keep  the  whale-boats  afloat  in  the 
water,  to  avoid  trampling  on  the  villagers'  crops 
when  the  gangs  "tracked  "  the  boats  with  lines 
thrown  from  midstream,  to  get  as  much  sleep 
and  food  as  was  possible,  and,  above  all,  to  press 
.on  without  delay  in  the  teeth  of  the  churning 
Nile. 

With  the  soldiers  sweated  and  toiled  the  corre- 
spondents of  the  newspapers,  and  they  were  al- 
most as  ignorant  as  their  companions.  But  it 
was  above  all  things  necessary  that  England  at 
breakfast  should  be  amused  and  thrilled  and  in- 
terested, whether  Gordon  lived  or  died,  or  half 
the  British  army  went  to  pieces  in  the  sands. 
The  Soudan  campaign  was  a  picturesque  one, 
and  lent  itself  to  vivid  word-painting.  Now  and 
again  a  "Special "  managed  to  get  slain, — which 


The  Light  that  Failed  29 

was  not  altogether  a  disadvantage  to  the  paper 
that  employed  him, — and  more  often  the  hand- 
to-hand  nature  of  the  fighting  allowed  of  mirac- 
ulous escapes  which  were  worth  telegraphing 
home  at  eighteenpence  the  word.  There  were 
many  correspondents  with  many  corps  and  col- 
umns,— from  the  veterans  who  had  followed  on 
the  heels  of  the  cavalry  that  occupied  Cairo  in 
'82,  what  time  Arabi  Pasha  called  himself  king, 
who  had  seen  the  first  miserable  work  round 
Suakin  when  the  sentries  were  cut  up  nightly 
and  the  scrub  swarmed  with  spears,  to  young- 
sters jerked  into  the  business  at  the  end  of  a  tele- 
graph-wire to  take  the  place  of  their  betters 
killed  or  invalided. 

Among  the  seniors — those  who  knew  every 
shift  and  change  in  the  perplexing  postal  ar- 
rangements, the  value  of  the  seediest,  weediest 
Egyptian  garron  offered  for  sale  in  Cairo  or  Alex- 
andria, who  could  talk  a  telegraph  clerk  into 
amiability  and  soothe  the  ruffled  vanity  of  a 
newly-appointed  staff-officer  when  press  regula- 
tions became  burdensome — was  the  man  in  the 
flannel  shirt,  the  black-browed  Torpenhow.  He 
represented  the  Central  Southern  Syndicate  in 
the  campaign,  as  he  had  represented  it  in  the 
Egyptian  war,  and  elsewhere.  The  syndicate 
did  not  concern  itself  greatly  with  criticisms  of 
attack  and  the  like.     It  supplied  the  masses,  and 


yo  The  Light  that  Failed 

all  it  demanded  was  picturesqueness  and  abun- 
dance of  detail;  for  there  is  more  joy  in  England 
over  a  soldier  who  insubordinately  steps  out  of 
square  to  rescue  a  comrade  than  over  twenty 
generals  slaving  even  to  baldness  at  the  gross 
details  of  transport  and  commissariat. 

He  had  met  at  Suakin  a  young  man,  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  a  recently-abandoned  redoubt  about 
the  size  of  a  hat-box,  sketching  a  clump  of  shell- 
torn  bodies  on  the  gravel  plain. 

"What  are  you  for ?"  said  Torpenhow.  The 
greeting  of  the  correspondent  is  that  of  the  com- 
mercial traveler  on  the  road. 

"My  own  hand,"  said  the  young  man,  with- 
out looking  up.     "  Have  you  any  tobacco  ?  " 

Torpenhow  waited  till  the  sketch  was  finished, 
and  when  he  had  looked  at  it  said,  "What's 
your  business  here  ?  " 

"Nothing;  there  was  a  row,  so  I  came.  I'm 
supposed  to  be  doing  something  down  at  the 
painting-slips  among  the  boats,  or  else  I'm  in 
charge  of  the  condenser  on  one  of  the  water- 
ships.     I've  forgotten  which." 

"You've  cheek  enough  to  build  a  redoubt 
with,"  said  Torpenhow,  and  took  stock  of  the 
new  acquaintance.  "  Do  you  always  draw  like 
that?" 

The  young  man  produced  more  sketches. 
"Row  on  a  Chinese  pig-boat,"  said  he,  senten- 


The  Light  that  Failed  31 

tiously,  showing  them  one  after  another. — "  Chief 
mate  dirked  by  a  comprador. — Junk  ashore  off 
Hakodate. — Somali  muleteer  being  flogged. — 
Star-shell  bursting  over  camp  at  Berbera. — Slave- 
dhow  being  chased  round  Tajurrah  Bay. — Soldier 
lying  dead  in  the  moonlight  outside  Suakin, — 
throat  cut  by  Fuzzies." 

"  H'm!  "  said  Torpenhow,  "can't  say  I  care  for 
Verestchagin-and-water  myself,  but  there's  no 
accounting  for  tastes.  Doing  anything  now,  are 
you?" 

"No.    I'm  amusing  myself  here." 

Torpenhow  looked  at  the  aching  desolation  of 
the  place.  "'Faith,  you've  queer  notions  of 
amusement.    'Got  any  money  ?" 

"Enough  to  go  on  with.  Look  here:  do  you 
want  me  to  do  war-work  ?" 

"/  don't.  My  syndicate  may,  though.  You 
can  draw  more  than  a  little,  and  I  don't  suppose 
you  care  much  what  you  get,  do  you  ?" 

"  Not  this  time.     I  want  my  chance  first." 

Torpenhow  looked  at  the  sketches  again,  and 
nodded.  "Yes,  you're  right  to  take  your  first 
chance  when  you  can  get  it." 

He  rode  away  swiftly  through  the  Gate  of  the 
Two  War-Ships,  rattled  across  the  causeway  into 
the  town,  and  wired  to  his  syndicate,  "Got  man 
here,  picture-work.  Good  and  cheap.  Shall  I 
arrange  ?    Will  do  letterpress  with  sketches." 


32  The  Light  that  Failed 

The  man  on  the  redoubt  sat  swinging  his  legs 
and  murmuring,  "I  knew  the  chance  would 
come,  sooner  or  later.  By  Gad,  they'll  have  to 
sweat  for  it  if  I  come  through  this  business 
alive! " 

In  the  evening  Torpenhow  was  able  to  an- 
nounce to  his  friend  that  the  Central  Southern 
Agency  was  willing  to  take  him  on  trial,  paying 
expenses  for  three  months.  "  And,  by  the  way, 
what's  your  name  ?  "  said  Torpenhow. 

"  Heldar.     Do  they  give  me  a  free  hand  ?  " 

"They've  taken  you  on  chance.  You  must 
justify  the  choice.  You'd  better  stick  to  me. 
I'm  going  up-country  with  a  column,  and  I'll  do 
what  I  can  for  you.  Give  me  some  of  your 
sketches  taken  here,  and  I'll  send 'em  along."  To 
himself  he  said,  "That's  the  best  bargain  the 
Central  Southern  has  ever  made;  and  they  got 
me  cheaply  enough." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that,  after  some  purchase  of 
horse-flesh  and  arrangements  financial  and  politi- 
cal, Dick  was  made  free  of  the  New  and  Honor- 
able Fraternity  of  war  correspondents,  who  all 
possess  the  inalienable  right  of  doing  as  much 
work  as  they  can  and  getting  as  much  for  it  as 
Providence  and  their  owners  shall  please.  To 
these  things  are  added  in  time,  if  the  brother  be 
worthy,  the  power  of  glib  speech  that  neither 
man  nor  woman  can  resist  when  a  meal  or  a  bed 


The  Light  that  Failed  33 

is  in  question,  the  eye  of  a  horse-coper,  the  skill 
of  a  cook,  the  constitution  of  a  bullock,  the  di- 
gestion of  an  ostrich,  and  an  infinite  adaptability 
to  all  circumstances.  But  many  die  before  they 
attain  to  this  degree,  and  the  past-masters  in  the 
craft  appear  for  the  most  part  in  dress-clothes 
when  they  are  in  England,  and  thus  their  glory 
is  hidden  from  the  multitude. 

Dick  followed  Torpenhow  wherever  the  latter's 
fancy  chose  to  lead  him,  and  between  the  two 
they  managed  to  accomplish  some  work  that  al- 
most satisfied  themselves.  It  was  not  an  easy 
life  in  any  way,  and  under  its  influence  the  two 
were  drawn  very  closely  together,  for  they  ate 
from  the  same  dish,  they  shared  the  same  water- 
bottle,  and,  most  binding  tie  of  all,  their  mails 
went  off  together.  It  was  Dick  who  managed  to 
make  gloriously  drunk  a  telegraph-clerk  in  a  palm 
hut  far  beyond  the  Second  Cataract,  and,  while 
the  man  lay  in  bliss  on  the  floor,  possessed  him- 
self of  some  laboriously  acquired  exclusive  infor- 
mation, forwarded  by  a  confiding  correspondent 
of  an  opposition  syndicate,  made  a  careful  dupli- 
cate of  the  matter,  and  brought  the  result  to  Tor- 
penhow, who  said  that  all  was  fair  in  love  or 
war  correspondence,  and  built  an  excellent  de- 
scriptive article  from  his  rival's  riotous  waste  of 
words.  It  was  Torpenhow  who — but  the  tale  of 
their  adventures,  together  and  apart,  from  Philae 


34  The  Light  that  Failed 

to  the  waste  wilderness  of  Herawi  and  Muella, 
would  fill  many  books.  They  had  been  penned 
into  a  square  side  by  side,  in  deadly  fear  of  be- 
ing shot  by  over-excited  soldiers;  they  had 
fought  with  baggage-camels  in  the  chill  dawn; 
they  had  jogged  along  in  silence  under  blinding 
sun  on  indefatigable  little  Egyptian  horses;  and 
they  had  floundered  on  the  shallows  of  the  Nile 
when  the  whale-boat  in  which  they  had  found  a 
berth  chose  to  hit  a  hidden  rock  and  rip  out  half 
her  bottom-planks. 

Now  they  were  sitting  on  the  sand-bank,  and 
the  whale-boats  were  bringing  up  the  remainder 
of  the  column. 

"Yes,"  said  Torpenhow,  as  he  put  the  last 
rude  stitches  into  his  over-long-neglected  gear, 
"it  has  been  a  beautiful  business." 

"The  patch  or  the  campaign?"  said  Dick. 
"Don't  think  much  of  either,  myself." 

"You  want  the  Euryalus  brought  up  above  the 
Third  Cataract,  don't  you?  and  eighty-one-ton 
guns  at  Jakdul?  Now,  I'm  quite  satisfied  with 
my  breeches."  He  turned  round  gravely  to  ex- 
hibit himself,  after  the  manner  of  a  clown. 

"It's  very  pretty.  Specially  the  lettering  on 
the  sack.  G.  B.  T.  Government  Bullock  Train. 
That's  a  sack  from  India." 

"It's  my  initials, — Gilbert  Belling  Torpenhow. 
I  ftole  the  cloth  on  purpose.    What  the  mischief 


The  Light  that  Failed  35 

are  the  camel-corps  doing  yonder?"  Torpenhow 
shaded  his  eyes  and  looked  across  the  scrub- 
strewn  gravel. 

A  bugle  blew  furiously,  and  the  men  on  the 
bank  hurried  to  their  arms  and  accoutrements. 

"'Pisan  soldiery  surprised  while  bathing,'" 
remarked  Dick,  calmly.  "D'you  remember  the 
picture?  It's  by  Michael  Angelo;  all  beginners 
copy  it.    That  scrub's  alive  with  enemy." 

The  camel-corps  on  the  bank  yelled  to  the  in- 
fantry to  come  to  them,  and  a  hoarse  shouting 
down  the  river  showed  that  the  remainder  of  the 
column  had  wind  of  the  trouble  and  was  hasten- 
ing to  take  share  in  it.  As  swiftly  as  a  reach  of 
still  water  is  crisped  by  the  wind,  the  rock-strewn 
ridges  and  scrub-topped  hills  were  troubled  and 
alive  with  armed  men.  Mercifully,  it  occurred  to 
these  to  stand  far  off  for  a  time,  to  shout  and 
gesticulate  joyously.  One  man  even  delivered 
himself  of  a  long  story.  The  camel-corps  did 
not  fire.  They  were  only  too  glad  of  a  little 
breathing-space,  until  some  sort  of  square  could 
be  formed.  The  men  on  the  sand-bank  ran  to 
their  side;  and  the  whale-boats,  as  they  toiled 
up  within  shouting  distance,  were  thrust  into  the 
nearest  bank  and  emptied  of  all  save  the  sick  and 
a  few  men  to  guard  them.  The  Arab  orator 
ceased  his  outcries,  and  his  friends  howled. 

"  They  look  like  the  Mahdi's  men,"  said  Tor- 


36  The  Light  that  Failed 

penhow,  elbowing  himself  into  the  crush  of  the 
square;  "but  what  thousands  of  'em  there  are! 
The  tribes  hereabout  aren't  against  us,  I  know." 

"Then  the  Mahdi's  taken  another  town,"  said 
Dick,  "and  set  all  these  yelping  devils  free  to 
chaw  us  up.     Lend  us  your  glass." 

"Our  scouts  should  have  told  us  of  this. 
We've  been  trapped,"  said  a  subaltern.  "  Aren't 
the  camel-guns  ever  going  to  begin  ?  Hurry  up, 
you  men!" 

There  was  no  need  for  any  order.  The  men 
flung  themselves  panting  against  the  sides  of  the 
square,  for  they  had  good  reason  to  know  that 
whoso  was  left  outside  when  the  fighting  began 
would  very  probably  die  in  an  extremely  unpleas- 
ant fashion.  The  little  hundred-and-fifty-pound 
camel-guns  posted  at  one  corner  of  the  square 
opened  the  ball  as  the  square  moved  forward  by 
its  right  to  get  possession  of  a  knoll  of  rising 
ground.  All  had  fought  in  this  manner  many 
times  before,  and  there  was  no  novelty  in  the 
entertainment:  always  the  same  hot  and  stilling 
formation,  the  smell  of  dust  and  leather,  the  same 
boltlike  rush  of  the  enemy,  the  same  pressure  on 
the  weakest  side  of  the  square,  the  few  minutes 
of  desperate  hand-to-hand  scuffle,  and  then  the 
silence  of  the  desert,  broken  only  by  the  yells  of 
those  whom  the  handful  of  cavalry  attempted  to 
pursue.    They  had  grown  careless.    The  camel- 


The  Light  that  Failed  yj 

guns  spoke  at  intervals,  and  the  square  slouched 
forward  amid  the  protests  of  the  camels.  Then 
came  the  attack  of  three  thousand  men  who  had 
not  learned  from  books  that  it  is  impossible  for 
troops  in  close  order  to  attack  against  breech- 
loading  fire.  A  few  dropping  shots  heralded 
their  approach,  and  a  few  horsemen  led,  but  the 
bulk  of  the  force  was  naked  humanity,  mad  with 
rage,  and  armed  with  the  spear  and  the  sword. 
The  instinct  of  the  desert,  where  there  is  always 
much  war,  told  them  that  the  right  flank  of  the 
square  was  the  weakest,  for  they  swung  clear  of 
the  front.  The  camel-guns  shelled  them  as  they 
passed,  and  opened  for  an  instant  lanes  through 
their  midst,  most  like  those  quick-closing  vistas 
in  a  Kentish  hop-garden  seen  when  the  train 
races  by  at  full  speed ;  and  the  infantry  fire,  held 
till  the  opportune  moment,  dropped  them  in 
close-packed  hundreds.  No  civilized  troops  in 
the  world  could  have  endured  the  hell  through 
which  they  came,  the  living  leaping  high  to  avoid 
the  dying  who  clutched  at  their  heels,  the 
wounded  cursing  and  staggering  forward,  till 
they  fell — a  torrent  black  as  the  sliding  water 
above  a  mill-dam— full  on  the  right  flank  of  the 
square.  Then  the  line  of  the  dusty  troops  and 
the  faint  blue  desert  sky  overhead  went  out  \x 
rolling  smoke,  and  the  little  stones  on  the  heated 
ground  and  the  tinder-dry  clumps  of  scrub  be 


38  The  Light  that  Failea 

came  matters  of  surpassing  interest,  for  men 
measured  their  agonized  retreat  and  recovery  by 
these  things,  counting  mechanically  and  hewing 
their  way  back  to  chosen  pebble  and  branch. 
There  was  no  semblance  of  any  concerted  fight- 
ing. For  aught  the  men  knew,  the  enemy  might 
be  attempting  all  four  sides  of  the  square  at  once. 
Their  business  was  to  destroy  what  lay  in  front 
of  them,  to  bayonet  in  the  back  those  who  passed 
over  them,  and,  dying,  to  drag  down  the  slayer 
till  he  could  be  knocked  on  the  head  by  some 
avenging  gun-butt.  Dick  waited  quietly  with 
Torpenhow  and  a  young  doctor  till  the  stress  be- 
came unendurable.  There  was  no  hope  of  at- 
tending to  the  wounded  till  the  attack  was  re- 
pulsed, so  the  three  moved  forward  gingerly 
toward  the  weakest  side.  There  was  a  rush 
from  without,  the  short  hough-hough  of  the  stab- 
bing spears,  and  a  man  on  a  horse,  followed  by 
thirty  or  forty  others,  dashed  through,  yelling 
and  hacking.  The  right  flank  of  the  square 
sucked  in  after  them,  and  the  other  sides  sent 
help.  The  wounded,  who  knew  that  they  had 
but  a  few  hours  more  to  live,  caught  at  the 
enemy's  feet  and  brought  them  down,  or,  stag- 
gering to  a  discarded  rifle,  fired  blindly  into*  the 
scuffle  that  raged  in  the  centre  of  the  square. 
Dick  was  conscious  that  somebody  had  cut  him 
violently  across  his  helmet,  that  he  had  fired  his 


The  Light  that  Failed  39 

revolver  into  a  black,  foam-flecked  face  which 
forthwith  ceased  to  bear  any  resemblance  to  a 
face,  and  that  Torpenhow  had  gone  down  under 
an  Arab  whom  he  had  tried  to  **  collar  low,"  and 
was  turning  over  and  over  with  his  captive,  feel- 
ing for  the  man's  eyes.  The  doctor  was  jabbing 
at  a  venture  with  a  bayonet,  and  a  helmetless 
soldier  was  firing  over  Dick's  shoulder:  the  flying 
grains  of  powder  stung  his  cheek.  It  was  to 
Torpenhow  that  Dick  turned  by  instinct.  The 
representative  of  the  Central  Southern  Syndicate 
had  shaken  himself  clear  of  his  enemy,  and  rose, 
wiping  his  thumb  on  his  trousers.  The  Arab, 
both  hands  to  his  forehead,  screamed  aloud,  then 
snatched  up  his  spear  and  rushed  at  Torpenhow, 
who  was  panting  under  shelter  of  Dick's  revol- 
ver. Dick  fired  twice,  and  the  man  dropped 
limply.  His  upturned  face  lacked  one  eye.  The 
musketry-fire  redoubled,  but  cheers  mingled  with 
it.  The  rush  had  failed,  and  the  enemy  were 
flying.  If  the  heart  of  the  square  were  shambles, 
the  ground  beyond  was  a  butcher's  shop.  Dick 
thrust  his  way  forward  between  the  maddened 
men.  The  remnant  of  the  enemy  were  retiring, 
as  the  few — the  very  few — English  cavalry  rode 
down  the  laggards. 

Beyond  the  lines  of  the  dead,  a  broad  blood- 
stained Arab  spear  cast  aside  in  the  retreat  lay 
across  a  stump  of  scrub,  and  beyond  this  again  the 


40  The  Light  that  Failed 

illimitable  dark  levels  of  the  desert.  The  sun 
caught  the  steel  and  turned  it  into  a  savage  red 
disc.  Some  one  behind  him  was  saying,  "Ah, 
get  away,  you  brute!"  Dick  raised  his  revolver 
and  pointed  toward  the  desert.  His  eye  was  held 
by  the  red  splash  in  the  distance,  and  the  clamor 
about  him  seemed  to  die  down  to  a  very  far- 
away whisper,  like  the  whisper  of  a  level  sea. 
There  was  the  revolver  and  the  red  light,  .  .  . 
and  the  voice  of  some  one  scaring  something 
away,  exactly  as  had  fallen  somewhere  before, — 
probably  in  a  past  life.  Dick  waited  for  what 
should  happen  afterward.  Something  seemed  to 
crack  inside  his  head,  and  for  an  instant  he  stood 
in  the  dark, — a  darkness  that  stung.  He  fired  at 
random,  and  the  bullet  went  out  across  the  desert 
as  he  muttered,  "Spoiled  my  aim.  There  aren't 
any  more  cartridges.  We  shall  have  to  run 
home."  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  and  brought 
it  away  covered  with  blood. 

"Old  man,  you're  cut  rather  badly,"  said  Tor- 
penhow.  "I  owe  you  something  for  this  busi- 
ness. Thanks.  Stand  up!  I  say,  you  can't  be 
ill  here." 

Dick  had  fallen  stiffly  on  Torpenhow's  shoul- 
der, and  was  muttering  something  about  aim- 
ing low  and  to  the  left.  Then  he  sank  to  the 
ground  and  was  silent.  Torpenhow  dragged 
him  off  to  a  doctor  and  sat  down  to  work  out  an 


The  Light  that  Failed  41 

account  of  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  "a  san- 
guinary battle,  in  which  our  arms  had  acquitted 
themselves,"  etc. 

All  that  night,  when  the  troops  were  encamped 
by  the  whale-boats,  a  black  figure  danced  in  the 
strong  moonlight  on  the  sand-bar  and  shouted 
that  Khartoum  the  accursed  one  was  dead, — was 
dead, — was  dead, — that  two  steamers  were  rock- 
staked  on  the  Nile  outside  the  city,  and  that  of  all 
their  crews  there  remained  not  one;  and 
Khartoum  was  dead, — was  dead, — was  dead! 

But  Torpenhow  took  no  heed.  He  was  watch- 
ing Dick,  who  was  calling  aloud  to  the  restless 
Nile  for  Maisie, — and  again  Maisie! 

"Behold  a  phenomenon,"  said  Torpenhow,  re- 
arranging the  blanket.  "Here  is  a  man,  pre- 
sumably human,  who  mentions  the  name  of  one 
woman  only.  And  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  de- 
lirium, too. — Dick,  here's  some  fizzy  drink." 

"Thank  you,  Maisie,"  said  Dick. 


CHAPTER  III 

So  he  thinks  he  shall  take  to  the  sea  again 
For  one  more  cruise  with  his  buccaneers, 
•         To  singe  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 
And  capture  another  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sell  him  in  Algiers. 

— A  Dutch  Picture. 

The  Soudan  campaign  and  Dick's  broken  head 
had  been  some  months  ended  and  mended,  and 
the  Central  Southern  Syndicate  had  paid  Dick  a 
certain  sum  on  account  for  work  done,  which 
work  they  were  careful  to  assure  him  was  not  al- 
together up  to  their  standard.  Dick  heaved  the 
letter  into  the  Nile  at  Cairo,  cashed  the  draft  in 
the  same  town,  and  bade  a  warm  farewell  to 
Torpenhow  at  the  station. 

"  1  am  going  to  lie  up  for  a  while  and  rest,"  said 
Torpenhow.  "I  don't  know  where  I  shall  live 
in  London,  but  if  God  brings  us  to  meet,  we 
shall  meet.  Are  you  staying  here  on  the  off- 
chance  of  another  row  ?  There  will  be  none  till 
the  Southern  Soudan  is  reoccupied  by  our  troops. 
Mark  that.  Good-bye;  bless  you;  come  back 
when  your  money's  spent;  and  give  me  your  ad- 
dress." 

Dick  loitered  in  Cairo,  Alexandria,  Ismallia,  and 
4* 


The  Light  that  Failed  4) 

Port  Said, — especially  Port  Said.  There  is  iniquity 
in  many  parts  of  the  world,  and  vice  in  all,  but 
the  concentrated  essence  of  all  the  iniquities  and 
all  the  vices  in  all  the  continents  finds  itself  at 
Port  Said.  And  through  the  heart  of  that  sand- 
bordered  hell,  where  the  mirage  flickers  day  long 
above  the  Bitter  Lakes,  move,  if  you  will  only 
wait,  most  of  the  men  and  women  you  have 
known  in  this  life.  Dick  established  himself  in 
quarters  more  riotous  than  respectable.  He  spent 
his  evenings  on  the  quay,  and  boarded  many 
ships,  and  saw  very  many  friends, — gracious 
Englishwomen  with  whom  he  had  talked  not  too 
wisely  in  the  veranda  of  Shepheard's  Hotel, 
hurrying  war  correspondents,  skippers  of  the 
contract  troop-ships  employed  in  the  campaign, 
army  officers  by  the  score,  and  others  of  less 
reputable  trades.  He  had  choice  of  all  the  races 
of  the  East  and  West  for  studies,  and  the  ad- 
vantage of  seeing  his  subjects  under  the  influence 
of  strong  excitement,  at  the  gaming-tables,  sa- 
loons, dancing-hells,  and  elsewhere.  For  recrea- 
tion there  was  the  straight  vista  of  the  Canal,  the 
blazing  sands,  the  procession  of  shipping,  and  the 
white  hospitals  where  the  English  soldiers  lay. 
He  strove  to  set  down  in  black  and  white  and 
color  all  that  Providence  sent  him,  and  when  that 
supply  was  ended  sought  about  for  fresh  material. 
It  was  a  fascinating  employment,  but  it  ran  away 


44  The  Light  that  Failed 

with  his  money,  and  he  had  drawn  in  advance 
the  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  to  which  he  was 
entitled  yearly.  "Now  1  shall  have  to  work  and 
starve!"  thought  he,  and  was  addressing  himself 
to  this  new  fate  when  a  mysterious  telegram  ar- 
rived from  Torpenhow  in  England,  which  said, 
"Come  back,  quick:  you  have  caught  on. 
Come." 

A  large  smile  overspread  his  face.  "So  soon! 
that's  good  hearing,'  said  he  to  himself.  "There 
will  be  an  orgie  to-night.  I'll  stand  or  fall  by  my 
luck.  'Faith,  it's  time  it  came!"  He  deposited 
half  of  his  funds  in  the  hands  of  his  well-known 
friends  Monsieur  and  Madame  Binat,  and  ordered 
himself  a  Zanzibar  dance  of  the  finest.  Monsieur 
Binat  was  shaking  with  drink,  but  Madame  smiled 
sympathetically — 

"Monsieur  needs  a  chair,  of  course,  and  of 
course  Monsieur  will  sketch:  Monsieur  amuses 
himself  strangely." 

Binat  raised  a  blue-white  face  from  a  cot  in  the 
inner  room.  "I  understand,"  he  quavered.  "We 
all  know  Monsieur.  Monsieur  is  an  artist,  as  I 
have  been."  Dick  nodded.  "In  the  end,"  said 
Binat,  with  gravity,  "  Monsieur  will  descend  alive 
into  hell,  as  I  have  descended."    And  he  laughed. 

"You  must  come  to  the  dance,  too,"  said  Dick; 
"I  shall  want  you." 

"For  my  face ?    I  knew  it  would  be  so.    For 


The  Light  that  Failed  45 

my  face?  My  God!  and  for  my  degradation  so 
tremendous!  I  will  not.  Take  him  away.  He 
is  a  devil.  Or  at  least  do  thou,  Celeste,  demand 
of  him  more."  The  excellent  Binat  began  to  kick 
and  scream. 

"All  things  are  for  sale  in  Port  Said,"  said 
Madame.  "If  my  husband  comes  it  will  be  so 
much  more.    Eh,  'ow  you  call — 'alf  a  sovereign." 

The  money  was  paid,  and  the  mad  dance  was 
held  at  night  in  a  walled  courtyard  at  the  back  of 
Madame  Binat's  house.  The  lady  herself,  in  faded 
mauve  silk  always  about  to  slide  from  her  yellow 
shoulders,  played  the  piano,  and  to  the  tin-pot 
music  of  a  Western  waltz  the  naked  Zanzibari 
girls  danced  furiously  by  the  light  of  kerosene 
lamps.  Binat  sat  upon  a  chair  and  stared  with 
eyes  that  saw  nothing,  till  the  whirl  of  the  dance 
and  the  clang  of  the  rattling  piano  stole  into  the 
drink  that  took  the  place  of  blood  in  his  veins, 
and  his  face  glistened.  Dick  took  him  by  the 
chin  brutally  and  turned  that  face  to  the  light. 
Madame  Binat  looked  over  her  shoulder  and 
smiled  with  many  teeth.  Dick  leaned  against 
the  wall  and  sketched  for  an  hour,  till  the  kero- 
sene lamps  began  to  smell,  and  the  girls  threw 
themselves  panting  on  the  hard-beaten  ground 
Then  he  shut  his  book  with  a  snap  and  movet 
away,  Binat  plucking  feebly  at  his  elbow.  "Show 
me,"  he  whimpered.     "  I  too  was  once  an  artist, 


46  The  Light  that  Failed 

even  I!"  Dick  showed  him  the  rough  sketch. 
"Am  I  that?"  he  screamed.  "Will  you  take 
that  away  with  you  and  show  all  the  world  that 
it  is  I, — Binat?"     He  moaned  and  wept. 

"Monsieur  has  paid  for  all,"  said  Madame. 
"To  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Monsieur  again." 

The  courtyard  gate  shut,  and  Dick  hurried  up 
the  sandy  street  to  the  nearest  gambling-hell, 
where  he  was  well  known.  "  If  the  luck  holds, 
it's  an  omen;  if  I  lose,  I  must  stay  here."  He 
placed  his  money  picturesquely  about  the  board, 
hardly  daring  to  look  at  what  he  did.  The  luck 
held.  Three  turns  of  the  wheel  left  him  richer 
by  twenty  pounds,  and  he  went  down  to  the 
snipping  to  make  friends  with  the  captain  of  a 
decayed  cargo-steamer,  who  landed  him  in  Lon- 
don with  fewer  pounds  in  his  pocket  than  he 
cared  to  think  about. 

A  thin  grey  fog  hung  over  the  city,  and  the 
streets  were  very  cold;  for  summer  was  in  Eng- 
land. 

"It's  a  cheerful  wilderness,  and  it  hasn't  the 
knack  of  altering  much,"  Dick  thought,  as  he 
cramped  from  the  Docks  westward.  "Now, 
what  must  I  do?" 

The  packed  houses  gave  no  answer.  Dick 
looked  down  the  long  lightless  streets  and  at 
the  appalling  rush  of  traffic.     "Oh,  you  rabbit- 


The  Light  that  Failed  47 

hutches!"  said  he,  addressing  a  row  of  highly- 
respectable  semi-detached  residences.  "  Do  you 
know  what  you've  got  to  do  later  on  ?  You  have 
to  supply  me  with  menservants  and  maidserv- 
ants,"— here  he  smacked  his  lips, — "and  the 
peculiar  treasure  of  kings.  Meantime  I'll  get 
clothes  and  boots,  and  presently  I  will  return 
and  trample  on  you."  He  stepped  forward  en- 
ergetically; he  saw  that  one  of  his  shoes  was 
burst  at  the  side.  As  he  stooped  to  make  inves- 
tigations, a  man  jostled  him  into  the  gutter.  "All 
right,"  he  said.  "That's  another  nick  in  the 
score.     I'll  jostle  you  later  on." 

Good  clothes  and  boots  are  not  cheap,  and 
Dick  left  his  last  shop  with  the  certainty  that  he 
would  be  respectably  arrayed  for  a  time,  but 
with  only  fifty  shillings  in  his  pocket.  He  re- 
turned to  streets  by  the  Docks,  and  lodged  him- 
self in  one  room,  where  the  sheets  on  the  bed 
were  almost  audibly  marked  in  case  of  theft,  and 
where  nobody  seemed  to  go  to  bed  at  all.  When 
his  clothes  arrived  he  sought  the  Central  Southern 
Syndicate  for  Torpenhow's  address,  and  got  it, 
with  the  intimation  that  there  was  still  some 
money  owing  to  him. 

"  How  much  ?"  said  Dick,  as  one  who  habitu- 
ally dealt  in  millions. 

"Between  thirty  and  forty  pounds.  If  it 
would  be  any  convenience  to  you,  of  course  we 


48  The  Light  that  Failed 

could  let  you  have  it  at  once;  but  we  usually 
settle  accounts  monthly." 

"If  I  show  that  I  want  anything  now,  I'm 
lost,"  he  said  to  himself.  "All  I  need  I'll  take 
later  on."  Then,  aloud,  "It's  hardly  worth 
while;  and  I'm  going  into  the  country  for  a 
month,  too.  Wait  till  I  come  back,  and  I'll 
see  about  it." 

"  But  we  trust,  Mr.  Heldar,  that  you  do  not  in- 
tend to  sever  your  connection  with  us?" 

Dick's  business  in  life  was  the  study  of  faces, 
and  he  watched  the  speaker  keenly.  "  That  man 
means  something,"  he  said.  "  I'll  do  no  busi- 
ness till  I've  seen  Torpenhow.  There's  a  big 
deal  coming."  So  he  departed,  making  no 
promises,  to  his  one  little  room  by  the  Docks. 
And  that  day  was  the  seventh  of  the  month,  and 
that  month,  he  reckoned  with  awful  distinctness, 
had  thirty-one  days  in  it! 

It  is  not  easy  for  a  man  of  catholic  tastes  and 
healthy  appetites  to  exist  for  twenty-four  days 
on  fifty  shillings.  Nor  is  it  cheering  to  begin  the 
experiment  alone  in  all  the  loneliness  of  London. 
Dick  paid  seven  shillings  a  week  for  his  lodging, 
which  left  him  rather  less  than  a  shilling  a  day 
for  food  and  drink.  Naturally,  his  first  purchase 
was  of  the  materials  of  his  craft;  he  had  been 
without  them  too  long.  Half  a  day's  investiga- 
tion and  comparison  brought  him  to  the  con- 


The  Light  that  Failed  49 

elusion  that  sausages  and  mashed  potatoes,  two- 
pence a  plate,  were  the  best  food.  Now,  sau- 
sages once  or  twice  a  week  for  breakfast  are  not 
unpleasant.  As  lunch,  even,  with  mashed  po- 
tatoes, they  become  monotonous.  As  dinner 
they  are  impertinent.  At  the  end  of  three  days 
Dick  loathed  sausages,  and,  going  forth,  pawned 
his  watch  to  revel  on  sheep's  head,  which  is  not 
as  cheap  as  it  looks,  owing  to  the  bones  and 
the  gravy.  Then  he  returned  to  sausages  and 
mashed  potatoes.  Then  he  confined  himself  en- 
tirely to  mashed  potatoes  for  a  day,  and  was  un- 
happy because  of  pain  in  his  inside.  Then  he 
pawned  his  waistcoat  and  his  tie,  and  thought 
regretfully  of  money  thrown  away  in  times  past. 
There  are  few  things  more  edifying  unto  Art 
than  the  actual  belly-pinch  of  hunger,  and  Dick 
in  his  few  walks  abroad — he  did  not  care  for 
exercise;  it  raised  desires  that  could  not  be  satis- 
fied— found  himself  dividing  mankind  into  two 
classes, — those  who  looked  as  if  they  might  give 
him  something  to  eat,  and  those  who  looked 
otherwise.  "I  never  knew  what  I  had  to  learn 
about  the  human  face  before,"  he  thought;  and, 
as  a  reward  for  his  humility,  Providence  caused 
a  cab-driver  at  a  sausage-shop  where  Dick  fed 
that  night  to  leave  half-eaten  a  great  chunk  of 
bread.  Dick  took  it, — would  have  fought  all  the 
world  for  its  possession, — and  it  cheered  him. 


yo  The  Light  that  Failed 

The  month  dragged  through  at  last,  and,  nearly 
prancing  with  impatience,  he  went  to  draw  his 
money.  Then  he  hastened  to  Torpenhow's  ad- 
dress and  smelt  the  smell  of  cooking  meats  all 
along  the  corridors  of  the  chambers.  Torpenhow 
was  on  the  top  floor,  and  Dick  burst  into  his 
room,  to  be  received  with  a  hug  which  nearly 
cracked  his  ribs,  as  Torpenhow  dragged  him  to 
the  light  and  spoke  of  twenty  different  things  in 
the  same  breath. 

"  But  you're  looking  tucked  up,"  he  concluded. 

"Got  anything  to  eat?"  said  Dick,  his  eye 
roaming  round  the  room. 

"I  shall  be  having  breakfast  in  a  minute. 
What  do  you  say  to  sausages  ?  " 

"No,  anything  but  sausages!  Torp,  I've  been 
starving  on  that  accursed  horse-flesh  for  thirty 
days  and  thirty  nights." 

"Now,  what  lunacy  has  been  your  latest?" 

Dick  spoke  of  the  last  few  weeks  with  un- 
bridled speech.  Then  he  opened  his  coat;  there 
was  no  waistcoat  below.  "  I  ran  it  fine,  awfully 
fine,  but  I've  just  scraped  through." 

"You  haven't  much  sense,  but  you've  got  a 
backbone,  anyhow.  Eat,  and  talk  afterward." 
Dick  fell  upon  eggs  and  bacon  and  gorged  till  he 
could  gorge  no  more.  Torpenhow  handed  him  a 
filled  pipe,  and  he  smoked  as  men  smoke  who  for 
three  weeks  have  been  deprived  of  good  tobacco. 


The  Light  that  Failed  5 1 

« ' Ouf !  "  said  he.  ' '  That's  heavenly  1  Well  ?  " 
"Why  in  the  world  didn't  you  come  to  me  ?" 
"Couldn't;  I  owe  you  too  much  already,  old 
man.  Beside,  I  had  a  sort  of  superstition  that 
this  temporary  starvation — that's  what  it  was, 
and  it  hurt — would  bring  me  more  luck  later. 
It's  over  and  done  with  now,  and  none  of  the 
syndicate  know  how  hard  up  I  was.  Fire  away. 
What's  the  exact  state  of  affairs  as  regards  my- 
self?" 

"You  had  my  wire?  You've  caught  on  here. 
People  like  your  work  immensely.  I  don't  know 
why,  but  they  do.  They  say  you  have  a  fresh 
touch  and  a  new  way  of  drawing  things.  And, 
because  they're  chiefly  home-bred  English,  they 
say  you  have  insight.  You're  wanted  by  half  a 
dozen  papers;  you're  wanted  to  illustrate  books." 
Dick  grunted  scornfully. 
"You're  wanted  to  work  up  your  smaller 
sketches  and  sell  them  to  the  dealers.  They 
seem  to  think  the  money  sunk  in  you  is  a  good 
investment.  Good  Lord!  who  can  account  for 
the  fathomless  folly  of  the  public  ?  " 

"  They're  a  remarkably  sensible  people." 
"They  are  subject  to  fits,  if  that's  what  you 
mean;  and  you  happen  to  be  the  object  of  the 
latest  fit  among  those  who  are  interested  in  what 
they  call  Art.  Just  now  you're  a  fashion,  a 
phenomenon,   or  whatever   you  please.    I  ap- 


53  The  Light  that  Failed 

peared  to  be  the  only  person  who  knew  anything 
about  you  here,  and  I  have  been  showing  the 
most  useful  men  a  few  of  the  sketches  you  gave 
me  from  time  to  time.  Those  coming  after  your 
work  on  the  Central  Southern  Syndicate  appear 
to  have  done  your  business.     You're  in  luck." 

"Huh!  call  it  luck!  Do  call  it  luck,  when  a 
man  has  been  kicking  about  the  world  like  a  dog, 
waiting  for  it  to  come!  I'll  luck  'em  later  on.  I 
want  a  place  to  work  in  first." 

"Come  here,"  said  Torpenhow,  crossing  the 
landing.  "This  place  is  a  big  box  room  really, 
but  it  will  do  for  you.  There's  your  skylight, 
or  your  north  light,  or  whatever  window  you 
call  it,  and  plenty  of  room  to  thrash  about  in, 
and  a  bedroom  beyond.  What  more  do  you 
need?" 

"Good  enough,"  said  Dick,  looking  round  the 
large  room  that  took  up  a  third  of  a  top  story  in 
the  rickety  chambers  overlooking  the  Thames.  A 
pale  yellow  sun  shone  through  the  skylight  and 
showed  the  much  dirt  of  the  place.  Three  steps 
led  from  the  door  to  the  landing,  and  three  more 
to  Torpenhow's  room.  The  well  of  the  staircase 
disappeared  into  darkness,  pricked  by  tiny  gas- 
jets,  and  there  were  sounds  of  men  talking  and 
doors  slamming  seven  flights  below,  in  the  warm 
gloom. 

"Do  they  give  you  a  free  hand  here?"  said 


The  Light  that  Failed  53 

Dick,  cautiously.  He  was  Ishmael  enough  to 
know  the  value  of  liberty. 

"Anything  you  like:  latch-keys  and  license 
unlimited.  We  are  permanent  tenants  for  the 
most  part  here.  Tisn't  a  place  I  would  recom- 
mend for  a  Young  Men's  Christian  Association, 
but  it  will  serve.  I  took  these  rooms  for  you 
when  I  wired." 

"  You're  a  great  deal  too  kind,  old  man." 

"You  didn't  suppose  you  were  going  away 
from  me,  did  you  ?  "  Torpenhow  put  his  hand  on 
Dick's  shoulder,  and  the  two  walked  up  and 
down  the  room,  henceforward  to  be  called  the 
studio,  in  sweet  and  silent  communion.  They 
heard  rapping  at  Torpenhow's  door.  "That's 
some  ruffian  come  up  for  a  drink,"  said  Torpen- 
how; and  he  raised  his  voice  cheerily.  There  en- 
tered no  one  more  ruffianly  than  a  portly  middle- 
aged  gentleman  in  a  satin-faced  frock-coat.  His 
lips  were  parted  and  pale,  and  there  were  deep 
pouches  under  the  eyes. 

"Weak  heart,"  said  Dick  to  himself,  and,  as  he 
shook  hands,  "very  weak  heart.  His  pulse  is 
shaking  his  fingers." 

The  man  introduced  himself  as  the  head  of  the 
Central  Southern  Syndicate  and  "  one  of  the  most 
ardent  admirers  of  your  work,  Mr.  Heldar.  I 
assure  you,  in  the  name  of  the  syndicate,  that  we 
are  immensely  indebted  to  you ;  and  I  trust,  Mr. 


54  The  Light  that  Failed 

Heldar,  you  won't  forget  that  we  were  largely 
instrumental  in  bringing  you  before  the  public." 
He  panted  because  of  the  seven  flights  of  stairs. 

Dick  glanced  at  Torpenhow,  whose  left  eyelid 
lay  for  a  moment  dead  on  his  cheek. 

"  I  shan't  forget,"  said  Dick,  every  instinct  of 
defence  roused  in  him.  "You've  paid  me  so 
well  that  I  couldn't,  you  know.  By  the  way, 
when  I  am  settled  in  this  place  I  should  like  to 
send  and  get  my  sketches.  There  must  be  nearly 
a  hundred  and  fifty  of  them  with  you." 

"That  is  er — is  what  I  came  to  speak  about. 
I  fear  we  can't  allow  it  exactly,  Mr.  Heldar.  In 
the  absence  of  any  specified  agreement,  the 
sketches  are  our  property,  of  course." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  going  to 
keep  them  ?" 

"Yes;  and  we  hope  to  have  your  help,  on  your 
own  terms,  Mr.  Heldar,  to  assist  us  in  arranging 
a  little  exhibition,  which,  backed  by  our  name 
and  the  influence  we  naturally  command  among 
the  press,  should  be  of  material  service  to  you. 
Sketches  such  as  yours  "  — 

"  Belong  to  me.  You  engaged  me  by  wire, 
you  paid  me  the  lowest  rates  you  dared.  You 
can't  mean  to  keep  them!  Good  God  alive,  man, 
they're  all  I've  got  in  the  world! " 

Torpenhow  watched  Dick's  face  and  whistled. 

Dick  walked  up  and  down,  thinking.     He  saw 


The  Light  that  Failed  55 

the  whole  of  his  little  stock  in  trade,  the  first 
weapon  of  his  equipment,  annexed  at  the  outset 
of  his  campaign  by  an  elderly  gentleman  whose 
name  Dick  had  not  caught  aright,  who  said  that 
he  represented  a  syndicate,  which  was  a  thing 
for  which  Dick  had  not  the  least  reverence.  The 
injustice  of  the  proceedings  did  not  much  move 
him;  he  had  seen  the  strong  hand  prevail  too 
often  in  other  places  to  be  squeamish  over  the 
moral  aspects  of  right  and  wrong.  But  he 
ardently  desired  the  blood  of  the  gentleman  in 
the  frock-coat,  and  when  he  spoke  again  it  was 
with  a  strained  sweetness  that  Torpenhow  knew 
well  for  the  beginning  of  strife. 

44  Forgive  me,  sir,  but  you  have  no — no  younger 
man  who  can  arrange  this  business  with  me?" 

44 1  speak  for  the  syndicate.  I  see  no  reason  for 
a  third  party  to  " — 

"You  will  in  a  minute.  Be  good  enough  to 
give  back  my  sketches." 

The  man  stared  blankly  at  Dick,  and  then  at 
Torpenhow,  who  was  leaning  against  the  wall. 
He  was  not  used  to  ex-employees  who  ordered 
him  to  be  good  enough  to  do  things. 

"Yes,  it  is  rather  a  cold-blooded  steal,"  said 
Torpenhow,  critically;  "but  I'm  afraid,  I  am  very 
much  afraid,  you've  struck  the  wrong  man.  Be 
careful,  Dick:  remember,  this  isn't  the  Soudan." 

"  Considering  what  services  the  syndicate  have 


56  The  Light  that  Failed 

done  you  in  putting  your  name  before  the 
world  " — 

This  was  not  a  fortunate  remark ;  it  reminded 
Dick  of  certain  vagrant  years  lived  out  in  loneli- 
ness and  strife  and  unsatisfied  desires.  The  mem- 
ory did  not  contrast  well  with  the  prosperous 
gentleman  who  proposed  to  enjoy  the  fruit  of 
those  years. 

"1  don't  know  quite  what  to  do  with  you," 
began  Dick,  meditatively.  "Of  course  you're  a 
thief,  and  you  ought  to  be  half  killed,  but  in  your 
case  you'd  probably  die.  I  don't  want  you  dead 
on  this  floor,  and,  besides,  it's  unlucky  just  as 
one's  moving  in.  Don't  hit,  sir;  you'll  only  ex- 
cite yourself."  He  put  one  hand  on  the  man's 
forearm  and  ran  the  other  down  the  plump  body 
beneath  the  coat.  "My  goodness!"  said  he  to 
Torpenhow,  "and  this  grey  oaf  dares  to  be  a  thief! 
I  have  seen  an  Esneh  camel-driver  have  the  black 
hide  taken  off  his  body  in  strips  for  stealing  half 
a  pound  of  wet  dates,  and  he  was  as  tough  as 
whipcord.  This  thing's  soft  all  over — like  a 
woman." 

There  are  few  things  more  poignantly  humili- 
ating than  being  handled  by  a  man  who  does  not 
intend  to  strike.  The  head  of  the  syndicate  be- 
gan to  breathe  heavily.  Dick  walked  round  him, 
pawing  him,  as  a  cat  paws  a  soft  hearth-rug. 
Then  he  traced  with   his  forefinger  the  leaden 


Copyright,  1899,  by  H.  M.  Caldwell  Co. 

"'You,  who  don't  know  when  you  may  die." 


The  Light  that  Failed  yj 

pouches  underneath  the  eyes,  and  shook  his  head. 
"You  were  going  to  steal  my  things, — mine, 
mine,  mine! — you,  who  don't  know  when  you 
may  die.  Write  a  note  to  your  office, — you  say 
you're  the  head  of  it, — and  order  them  to  give 
Torpenhow  my  sketches, — every  one  of  them. 
Wait  a  minute:  your  hand's  snaking.  Now!" 
He  thrust  a  pocketbook  before  him.  The  note 
was  written.  Torpenhow  took  it  and  departed 
without  a  word,  while  Dick  walked  round  and 
round  the  spellbound  captive,  giving  him  such 
advice  as  he  conceived  best  for  the  welfare  of  his 
soul.  When  Torpenhow  returned  with  a  gigan- 
tic portfolio,  he  heard  Dick  say,  almost  soothingly, 
"Now,  I  hope  this  will  be  a  lesson  to  you;  and 
if  you  worry  me  when  I  have  settled  down  to 
work  with  any  nonsense  about  actions  for  as- 
sault, believe  me,  I'll  catch  you  and  manhandle 
you,  and  you'll  die.  You  haven't  very  long  to 
live,  anyhow.  Go!  Imshi,  Vootsah, — get  out!" 
The  man  departed,  staggering  and  dazed.  Dick 
drew  a  long  breath:  "  Phew!  what  a  lawless  lot 
these  people  are!  The  first  thing  a  poor  orphan 
meets  is  gang  robbery,  organized  burglary!  Think 
of  the  hideous  blackness  of  that  man's  mind! 
Are  my  sketches  all  right,  Torp  ?" 

"Yes;  one  hundred  and  forty-seven  of  them. 
Well,  I  must  say,  Dick,  you've  begun  well." 

"  He  was  interfering  with  me.     It  only  meant 


$8  The  Light  that  Failed 

a  few  pounds  to  him,  but  it  was  everything  to 
me.  I  don't  think  he'll  bring  an  action.  I  gave 
him  some  medical  advice  gratis  about  the  state  of 
his  body.  It  was  cheap  at  the  little  flurry  it  cost 
him.    Now,  let's  look  at  my  things." 

Two  minutes  later  Dick  had  thrown  himself 
down  on  the  floor  and  was  deep  in  the  portfolio, 
chuckling  lovingly  as  he  turned  the  drawings  over 
and  thought  of  the  price  at  which  they  had  been 
bought. 

The  afternoon  was  well  advanced  when  Tor- 
penhow  came  to  the  door  and  saw  Dick  dancing 
a  wild  saraband  under  the  skylight. 

"I  builded  better  than  I  knew,  Torp,"  he  said, 
without  stopping  the  dance.  "They're  good! 
They're  damned  good!  They'll  go  like  flame!  I 
shall  have  an  exhibition  of  them  on  my  own 
brazen  hook.  And  that  man  would  have  cheated 
me  out  of  it!  Do  you  know  that  I'm  sorry  now 
that  I  didn't  actually  hit  him  ?" 

"  Go  out,"  said  Torpenhow, — "  go  out  and  pray 
to  be  delivered  from  the  sin  of  arrogance,  which 
you  never  will  be.  Bring  your  things  up  from 
whatever  place  you're  staying  in,  and  we'll  try  to 
make  this  barn  a  little  more  shipshape." 

"  And  then — oh,  then,"  said  Dick,  still  capering, 
"  we  will  spoil  the  Egyptians ! " 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  wolf-cub  at  even  lay  hid  in  the  corn, 
When  the  smoke  of  the  cooking  hung  grey : 

He  knew  where  the  doe  made  a  couch  for  her  fawn. 
And  he  looked  to  his  strength  for  his  prey. 
But  the  moon  swept  the  smoke-wreaths  away. 

And  he  turned  from  his  meal  in  the  villager's  close, 

And  he  bayed  to  the  moon  as  she  rose. — In  Seonee. 

"Well,  and  how  does  success  taste?"  said 
Torpenhow,  some  three  months  later.  He  had 
just  returned  to  chambers  after  a  holiday  in  the 
country. 

"Good,"  said  Dick,  as  he  sat  licking  his  lips 
before  the  easel  in  the  studio.  "  I  want  more, 
— heaps  more.  The  lean  years  have  passed,  and 
I  approve  of  these  fat  ones." 

"Be  careful,  old  man.  That  way  lies  bad 
work." 

Torpenhow  was  sprawling  in  a  long  chair 
with  a  small  fox-terrier  asleep  on  his  chest, 
while  Dick  was  preparing  a  canvas.  A  dais,  a 
background,  and  a  lay-figure  were  the  only  fixed 
objects  in  the  place.  They  rose  from  a  wreck  of 
oddments  that  began  with  felt-covered  water- 
bottles,  belts,  and  regimental  badges,  and  ended 
with  a  small  bale  of  second-hand  uniforms  and  a 
59 


60  The  Light  that  Failed 

stand  of  mixed  arms.  The  mark  of  muddy  feet 
on  the  dais  showed  that  a  military  model  had 
just  gone  away.  The  watery  autumn  sunlight 
was  failing,  and  shadows  sat  in  the  corners  of 
the  studio. 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  deliberately,  "I  like  the 
power;  I  like  the  fun;  I  like  the  fuss;  and  above 
all  I  like  the  money.  I  almost  like  the  people 
who  make  the  fuss  and  pay  the  money.  Al- 
most. But  they're  a  queer  gang, — an  amazingly 
queer  gang!" 

"They  have  been  good  enough  to  you,  at  any 
rate.  That  tin-pot  exhibition  of  your  sketches 
must  have  paid.  Did  you  see  that  the  papers 
called  it  the  '  Wild  Work  Show  *  ?  " 

"  Never  mind.  I  sold  every  shred  of  canvas  I 
wanted  to;  and,  on  my  word,  I  believe  it  was 
because  they  believed  I  was  a  self-taught  flag- 
stone artist.  1  should  have  got  better  prices  if  I 
had  worked  my  things  on  wool  or  scratched 
them  on  camel-bone  instead  of  using  mere  black 
and  white  and  color.  Verily,  they  are  a  queer 
gang,  these  people.  Limited  isn't  the  word  to 
describe  'em.  I  met  a  fellow  the  other  day  who 
told  me  that  it  was  impossible  that  shadows  on 
white  sand  should  be  blue, — ultramarine, — as 
they  are.  1  found  out,  later,  that  that  man  had 
been  as  far  as  Brighton  beach ;  but  he  knew  all 
about  Art,  confound  him.     He  gave  me  a  lecture 


The  Light  that  Failed  61 

on  it,  and  recommended  me  to  go  to  school  to 
learn  technique.  I  wonder  what  old  Kami  would 
have  said  to  that." 

"When  were  you  under  Kami,  man  of  extra- 
ordinary beginnings  ?  " 

"I  studied  with  him  for  two  years  in  Paris. 
He  taught  by  personal  magnetism.  All  he  ever 
said  was,  'Continue^,  mes  en/ants,'  and  you 
had  to  make  the  best  you  could  of  that.  He  had 
a  divine  touch,  and  he  knew  something  about 
color.  Kami  used  to  dream  color;  I  swear  he 
could  never  have  seen  the  genuine  article;  but  he 
evolved  it;  and  it  was  good." 

"Recollect  some  of  those  views  in  the  Sou- 
dan?" said  Torpenhow,  with  a  provoking  drawl. 

Dick  squirmed  in  his  place.  "Don't!  It 
makes  me  want  to  get  out  there  again.  What 
color  that  was!  Opal  and  umber  and  amber  and 
claret  and  brick-red  and  sulphur — cockatoo-crest 
sulphur — against  brown,  with  a  nigger-black 
rock  sticking  up  in  the  middle  of  it  all,  and  a 
decorative  frieze  of  camels  festooning  in  front  of 
a  pure  pale  turquoise  sky."  He  began  to  walk  up 
and  down.  "  And  yet,  you  know,  if  you  try  to 
give  these  people  the  thing  as  God  gave  it  keyed 
down  to  their  comprehension  and  according  to 
the  powers  He  has  given  you  "  — 

"Modest  man!    Goon." 

"Half  a  dozen  epicene  young  pagans  who 


62  The  Light  that  Failed 

haven't  even  been  to  Algiers  will  tell  you,  first, 
that  your  notion  is  borrowed,  and,  secondly,  that 
it  isn't  Art." 

"This  comes  of  my  leaving  town  for  a  month. 
Dickie,  you've  been  promenading  among  the 
toy-shops  and  hearing  people  talk." 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Dick,  penitently. 
"  You  weren't  here,  and  it  was  lonely  these  long 
evenings.     A  man  can't  work  forever." 

"A  man  might  have  gone  to  a  pub,  and  got 
decently  drunk." 

"I  wish  I  had;  but  I  forgathered  with  some 
men  of  sorts.  They  said  they  were  artists,  and  I 
knew  some  of  them  could  draw, — but  they 
wouldn't  draw.  They  gave  me  tea, — tea  at  five 
in  the  afternoon ! — and  talked  about  Art  and  the 
state  of  their  souls.  As  if  their  souls  mattered. 
I've  heard  more  about  Art  and  seen  less  of  her  in 
the  last  six  months  than  in  the  whole  of  my  life. 
Do  you  remember  Cassavetti,  who  worked  for 
some  continental  syndicate,  out  with  the  desert 
column  ?  He  was  a  regular  Christmas-tree  of 
contraptions  when  he  took  the  field  in  full  fig, 
with  his  water-bottle,  lanyard,  revolver,  writing- 
case,  housewife,  gig-lamps,  and  the  Lord  knows 
what  all.  He  used  to  fiddle  about  with  'em  and 
show  us  how  they  worked;  but  he  never  seemed 
to  do  much  except  fudge  his  reports  from  the 
Nilghai.    See?" 


The  Light  that  Failed  63 

"  Dear  old  Nilghai!  He's  in  town,  fatter  than 
ever.  He  ought  to  be  up  here  this  evening.  I 
see  the  comparison  perfectly.  You  should  have 
kept  clear  of  all  that  man-millinery.  Serves  you 
right;  and  I  hope  it  will  unsettle  your  mind." 

*'  It  won't.  It  has  taught  me  what  Art — holy 
sacred  Art — means." 

"You've  learned  something  while  I've  been 
away.     What  is  Art  ?" 

"Give  'em  what  they  know,  and  when  you've 
done  it  once  do  it  again."  Dick  dragged  forward 
a  canvas  laid  face  to  the  wall.  "  Here's  a  sample 
of  real  Art.  It's  going  to  be  a  facsimile  repro- 
duction for  a  weekly.  I  called  it  'His  Last 
Shot.'  It's  worked  up  from  the  little  water- 
color  I  made  outside  EI  Maghrib.  Well,  I  lured 
my  model,  a  beautiful  rifleman,  up  here  with 
drink;  I  drored  him,  and  I  redrored  him,  and  I 
tredrored  him,  and  I  made  him  a  flushed,  di- 
sheveled, bedevilled  scallawag,  with  his  helmet 
at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  the  living  fear  of 
death  in  his  eye,  and  the  blood  oozing  out  of  a  cut 
over  his  ankle-bone.  He  wasn't  pretty,  but  he 
was  all  soldier  and  very  much  man." 

"Once  more,  modest  child!" 

Dick  laughed.  "Well,  it's  only  to  you  I'm 
talking.  I  did  him  just  as  well  as  I  knew  how, 
making  allowance  for  the  slickness  of  oils.  Then 
the  art-manager  of  that  abandoned  paper  said 


64  The  Light  that  Failed 

that  his  subscribers  wouldn't  like  it.  It  was  bru- 
tal and  coarse  and  violent, — man  being  naturally 
gentle  when  he's  fighting  for  his  life.  They 
wanted  something  more  restful,  with  a  little 
more  color.  1  could  have  said  a  good  deal,  but 
you  might  as  well  talk  to  a  sheep  as  an  art-man- 
ager. I  took  my 'Last  Shot' back.  Behold  the 
result!  I  put  him  into  a  lovely  red  coat  without 
a  speck  on  it.  That  is  Art.  I  polished  his  boots, 
— observe  the  high  light  on  the  toe.  That  is  Art. 
I  cleaned  his  rifle, — rifles  are  always  clean  on 
service — because  that  is  Art.  I  pipeclayed  his 
helmet, — pipeclay  is  always  used  on  active 
service,  and  is  indispensable  to  Art.  I  shaved 
his  chin,  I  washed  his  hands,  and  gave  him  an 
air  of  fatted  peace.  Result,  military  tailor's  pat- 
tern-plate. Price,  thank  Heaven,  twice  as  much 
as  for  the  first  sketch,  which  was  moderately 
decent." 

"And  do  you  suppose  you're  going  to  give 
that  thing  out  as  your  work  ?" 

"Why  not?  I  did  it.  Alone  I  did  it,  in  the 
interests  of  sacred,  home-bred  Art  and  Dicken- 
son's Weekly" 

Torpenhow  smoked  in  silence  for  a  while. 
Then  came  the  verdict,  delivered  from  rolling 
clouds:  "  If  you  were  only  a  mass  of  blathering 
vanity,  Dick,  I  wouldn't  mind, — I'd  let  you  go  to 
the  deuce  on  your  own  mahl-stick;  but  when  I 


The  Light  that  Failed  65 

consider  what  you  are  to  me,  and  when  I  find 
that  to  vanity  you  add  the  twopenny-halfpenny 
pique  of  a  twelve-year-old  girl,  then  I  bestir  my- 
self in  your  behalf.     Thus!" 

The  canvas  ripped  as  Torpenhow's  booted  foot 
shot  through  it,  and  the  terrier  jumped  down, 
thinking  rats  were  about. 

"If  you  have  any  bad  language  to  use,  use  it. 
You  have  not.  I  continue.  You  are  an  idiot, 
because  no  man  born  of  woman  is  strong  enough 
to  take  liberties  with  his  public,  even  though 
they  be — which  they  ain't — all  you  say  they  are." 

"  But  they  don't  know  any  better.  What  can 
you  expect  from  creatures  born  and  bred  in  this 
light?"  Dick  pointed  to  the  yellow  fog.  "If 
they  want  furniture-polish,  let  them  have  furni- 
ture-polish, so  long  as  they  pay  for  it.  They  are 
only  men  and  women.  You  talk  as  though  they 
were  gods." 

"That  sounds  very  fine,  but  it  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  case.  They  are  the  people  you  have 
to  work  for,  whether  you  like  it  or  not.  They 
are  your  masters.  Don't  be  deceived,  Dickie, 
you  aren't  strong  enough  to  trifle  with  them, — 
or  with  yourself,  which  is  more  important. 
Moreover, — Come  back,  Binkie:  that  red  daub 
isn't  going  anywhere, — unless  you  take  precious 
good  care,  you  will  fall  under  the  damnation  of 
the  check-book,  and  that's  worse  than  death. 


66  The  Light  that  Failed 

You  will  get  drunk — you're  half  drunk  already — 
on  easily-acquired  money.  For  that  money  and 
your  own  infernal  vanity  you  are  willing  to  deliber- 
ately turn  out  bad  work.  You'll  do  quite  enough 
bad  work  without  knowing  it.  And,  Dickie,  as 
I  love  you  and  as  I  know  you  love  me,  I  am  not 
going  to  let  you  cut  off  your  nose  to  spite  your 
face  for  all  the  gold  in  England.  That's  settled. 
Now  swear." 

"Don't  know,"  said  Dick.  "I've  been  trying 
to  make  myself  angry,  but  I  can't,  you're  so 
abominably  reasonable.  There  will  a  be  row  on 
Dickenson' s  Weekly,  I  fancy." 

"  Why  the  Dickenson  do  you  want  to  work  on 
a  weekly  paper?    It's  slow  bleeding  of  power." 

"It  brings  in  the  very  desirable  dollars,"  said 
Dick,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

Torpenhow  watched  him  with  large  contempt. 
"Why,  I  thought  it  was  a  man! "  said  he.  "It's 
a  child." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  said  Dick,  wheeling  quickly. 
"You've  no  notion  what  the  certainty  of  cash 
means  to  a  man  who  has  always  wanted  it  badly. 
Nothing  will  pay  me  for  some  of  my  life's  joys; 
on  that  Chinese  pig-boat,  for  instance,  when  we 
ate  bread  and  jam  for  every  meal,  because  Ho- 
Wang  wouldn't  allow  us  anything  better,  and  it 
all  tasted  of  pig, — Chinese  pig.  I've  worked  for 
this,  I've  sweated  and  I've  starved  for  this,  line 


The  Light  that  Failed  &] 

on  line  and  month  after  month.  And  now  I've 
got  it  I  am  going  to  make  the  most  of  it  while  it 
lasts.     Let  them  pay — they've  no  knowledge." 

"What  does  Your  Majesty  please  to  want? 
You  can't  smoke  more  than  you  do;  you  won't 
drink;  you're  a  gross  feeder;  and  you  dress  in  the 
dark,  by  the  look  of  you.  You  wouldn't  keep  a 
horse  the  other  day  when  I  suggested,  because,  you 
said,  it  might  fall  lame,  and  whenever  you  cross 
the  street  you  take  a  hansom.  Even  you  are  not 
foolish  enough  to  suppose  that  theatres  and  all  the 
live  things  you  can  buy  thereabouts  mean  Life. 
What  earthly  need  have  you  for  money  ?" 

"It's  there,  bless  its  golden  heart,"  said  Dick. 
"  It's  there  all  the  time.  Providence  has  sent  me 
nuts  while  I  have  teeth  to  crack  'em  with.  I 
haven't  yet  found  the  nut  I  wish  to  crack,  but  I'm 
keeping  my  teeth  filed.  Perhaps  some  day  you  and 
I  will  go  for  a  walk  round  the  wide  earth." 

"With  no  work  to  do,  nobody  to  worry  us, 
and  nobody  to  compete  with?  You  would  be 
unfit  to  speak  to  in  a  week.  Besides,  I  shouldn't 
go.  I  don't  care  to  profit  by  the  price  of  a  man's 
soul, — for  that's  what  it  would  mean.  Dick,  it's 
no  use  arguing.     You're  a  fool." 

"  Don't  see  it.  When  I  was  on  that  Chinese 
pig-boat,  our  captain  got  enormous  credh>for 
saving  about  twenty-five  thousand  very  sea-sick 
little  pigs,  when  our  old  tramp  of  a  steamer  fell 


68  The  Light  that  Failed 

foul  of  a  timber-junk.  Now,  taking  those  pigs 
as  a  parallel " — 

"Oh,  confound  your  parallels!  Whenever  I 
try  to  improve  your  soul,  you  always  drag  in 
some  irrelevant  anecdote  from  your  very  shady 
past.  Pigs  aren't  the  British  public;  credit  on  the 
high  seas  isn't  credit  here;  and  self-respect  is 
self-respect  all  the  world  over.  Go  out  for  a 
walk  and  try  to  catch  some  self-respect.  And,  I 
say,  if  the  Nilghai  comes  up  this  evening  can  I 
show  him  your  diggings  ?" 

"Surely.  You'll  be  asking  whether  you  must 
knock  at  my  door,  next."  And  Dick  departed, 
to  take  counsel  with  himself  in  the  rapidly-gath- 
ering London  fog. 

Half  an  hour  after  he  had  left,  the  Nilghai 
labored  up  the  staircase.  He  was  the  chiefest,  as 
he  was  the  hugest,  of  the  war  correspondents, 
and  his  experiences  dated  from  the  birth  of  the 
needle-gun.  Saving  only  his  ally,  Keneu  the 
Great  War  Eagle,  there  was  no  man  mightier  in 
the  craft  than  he,  and  he  always  opened  his  con- 
versation with  the  news  that  there  would  ba 
trouble  in  the  Balkans  in  the  spring.  Torpenhow 
laughed  as  he  entered. 

"  Never  mind  the  trouble  in  the  Balkans.  Those 
little  states  are  always  screeching.  You've  heard 
about  Dick's  luck?" 

"Yes;  he  has  been  called  up  to  notoriety, 


The  Light  that  Failed  69 

hasn't  he  ?  I  hope  you  keep  him  properly  hum- 
ble.    He  wants  suppressing  from  time  to  time." 

"He  does.  He's  beginning  to  take  liberties 
with  what  he  thinks  is  his  reputation." 

"Already!  By  Jove,  he  has  cheek!  I  don't 
know  about  his  reputation,  but  he'll  come  a 
cropper  if  he  tries  that  sort  of  thing." 

"So  I  told  him.    I  don't  think  he  believes  it." 

"They  never  do  when  they  first  start  off. 
What's  that  wreck  on  the  ground  there  ?  " 

"Specimen  of  his  latest  impertinence."  Tor- 
penhow  thrust  the  torn  edges  of  the  canvas  to- 
gether and  showed  the  well-groomed  picture  to 
the  Nilghai,  who  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  and 
whistled. 

"  It's  a  chromo,"  said  he, — "  a  chromo-litholeo- 
margarine  fake!  What  possessed  him  to  do  it? 
And  yet  how  thoroughly  he  has  caught  the  note 
that  catches  a  public  who  think  with  their  boots 
and  read  with  their  elbows!  The  cold-blooded 
insolence  of  the  work  almost  saves  it;  but  he 
mustn't  go  on  with  this.  Hasn't  he  been  praised 
and  cockered  up  too  much  ?  You  know  these 
people  here  have  no  sense  of  proportion.  They'll 
call  him  a  second  Detaille  and  a  third-hand  Meis- 
sonier  while  his  fashion  lasts.  It's  windy  diet 
for  a  colt." 

"I  don't  think  it  affects  Dick  much.  You 
might  as  well  call  a  young  wolf  a  lion  and  expect 


70  The  Light  that  Failed 

him  to  take  the  compliment  in  exchange  for  a 
shin-bone.  Dick's  soul  is  in  the  bank.  He's 
working  for  cash." 

"Now  he  has  thrown  up  war  work,  I  suppose 
he  doesn't  see  that  the  obligations  of  the  service  are 
just  the  same,  only  the  proprietors  are  changed." 

"  How  should  he  know?  He  thinks  he  is  his 
own  master." 

"  Does  he  ?  I  could  undeceive  him  for  his  good, 
if  there's  any  virtue  in  print.  He  wants  the 
whip-lash." 

"Lay  it  on  with  science,  then.  I'd  flay  him 
myself,  but  I  like  him  too  much." 

"  I've  no  scruples.  He  had  the  audacity  to  try 
to  cut  me  out  with  a  woman  at  Cairo  once.  I 
forgot  that,  but  I  remember  now." 

"  Did  he  cut  you  out  ?  " 

"You'll  see  when  I  have  dealt  with  him.  But, 
after  all,  what's  the  good  ?  Leave  him  alone  and 
he'll  come  home,  if  he  has  any  stuff  in  him, 
dragging  or  wagging  his  tail  behind  him. 
There's  more  in  a  week  of  life  than  in  a  lively 
weekly.  None  the  less  I'll  slate  him.  I'll  slate 
him  ponderously  in  the  Cataclysm." 

"Good  luck  to  you;  but  I  fancy  nothing  short 
of  a  crowbar  would  make  Dick  wince.  His  soul 
seems  to  have  been  fired  before  we  came  across 
him.  He's  intensely  suspicious  and  utterly  law- 
less." 


The  Light  that  Failed  71 

"Matter  of  temper,"  said  the  Nilghai.  "It's 
the  same  with  horses.  Some  you  wallop  and 
they  work,  some  you  wallop  and  they  jib,  and 
some  you  wallop  and  they  go  out  for  a  walk 
with  their  hands  in  their  pockets." 

"That's  exactly  what  Dick  has  done,"  said 
Torpenhow.  "Wait  till  he  comes  back.  In  the 
meantime,  you  can  begin  your  slating  here.  I'll 
show  you  some  of  his  last  and  worst  work  in  his 
studio." 

Dick  had  instinctively  sought  running  water 
for  a  comfort  to  his  mood  of  mind.  He  was 
leaning  over  the  Embankment  wall,  watching 
the  rush  of  the  Thames  through  the  arches  of 
Westminster  Bridge.  He  began  by  thinking  of 
Torpenhow's  advice,  but,  as  of  custom,  lost  him- 
self in  the  study  of  the  faces  flocking  past.  Some 
had  death  written  on  their  features,  and  Dick 
marveled  that  they  could  laugh.  Others,  clumsy 
jmd  coarse-built  for  the  most  part,  were  alight 
with  love;  others  were  merely  drawn  and  lined 
with  work;  but  there  was  something,  Dick  knew, 
to  be  made  out  of  them  all.  The  poor  at  least 
should  suffer  that  he  might  learn,  and  the  rich 
should  pay  for  the  output  of  his  learning.  Thus 
his  credit  in  the  world  and  his  cash  balance  at 
the  bank  would  be  increased.  So  much  the  bet- 
ter for  him.  He  had  suffered.  Now  he  would 
Uke  toll  of  the  ills  of  others. 


73  The  Light  that  Failed 

The  fog  was  driven  apart  for  a  moment,  and 
the  sun  shone,  a  blood-red  wafer,  on  the  water. 
Dick  watched  the  spot  till  he  heard  the  voice  of 
the  tide  between  the  piers  die  down  like  the  wash 
of  the  sea  at  low  tide.  A  girl  hard  pressed  by 
her  lover  shouted  shamelessly,  "Ah,  get  away, 
you  beast!"  and  a  shift  of  the  same  wind  that 
had  opened  the  fog  drove  across  Dick's  face  the 
black  smoke  of  a  river-steamer  at  her  berth  be- 
low the  wall.  He  was  blinded  for  the  moment, 
then  spun  round  and  found  himself  face  to  face 
with — Maisie. 

There  was  no  mistaking.  The  years  had 
turned  the  child  to  a  woman,  but  they  had  not 
altered  the  dark-grey  eyes,  the  thin  scarlet  lips, 
or  the  firmly  modeled  mouth  and  chin;  and,  that 
all  should  be  as  it  was  of  old,  she  wore  a  closely- 
fitting  grey  dress. 

Since  the  human  soul  is  finite  and  not  in  the 
least  under  its  own  command,  Dick,  advancing, 
said,  "  Halloo! "  after  the  manner  of  schoolboys, 
and  Maisie  answered,  "Oh,  Dick,  is  that  you?" 
Then,  against  his  will,  and  before  the  brain  newly 
released  from  considerations  of  the  cash  balance 
had  time  to  dictate  to  the  nerves,  every  pulse  of 
Dick's  body  throbbed  furiously  and  his  palate 
dried  in  his  mouth.  The  fog  shut  down  again, 
and  Maisie's  face  was  pearl-white  through  it. 
No  word  was  spoken,  but  Dick  fell  into  step  at 


The  Light  that  Failed  73 

her  side,  and  the  two  paced  the  Embankment 
together,  keeping  the  step  as  perfectly  as  in  their 
afternoon  excursions  to  the  mud-flats.  Then 
Dick,  a  little  hoarsely  — 

"What  has  happened  to  Amomma?" 

"He  died,  Dick.  Not  cartridges;  over-eating. 
He  was  always  greedy.     Isn't  it  funny  ?  " 

"  Yes.    No.     Do  you  mean  Amomma  ?" 

"  Ye — es.  No.  This.  Where  have  you  come 
from?" 

"  Over  there."  He  pointed  eastward  through 
the  fog.     "And  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  in  the  north, — the  black  north,  across 
all  the  Park.     I  am  very  busy." 

"What  do  you  do?" 

"  I  paint  a  great  deal.    That's  all  I  have  to  do." 

"Why,  what's  happened?  You  had  three 
hundred  a  year." 

"  I  have  that  still.     I  am  painting;  that's  all." 

"Are  you  alone,  then  ?" 

"  There's  a  girl  living  with  me.  Don't  walk 
so  fast,  Dick;  you're  out  of  step." 

"Then  you  noticed  it  too?" 

"  Of  course  I  did.     You're  always  out  of  step." 

"So  I  am.  I'm  sorry.  You  went  on  with  the 
painting?" 

"Of  course.  I  said  I  should.  I  was  at  the 
Slade,  then  at  Merton's  in  St.  John's  Wood,  the 
big  studio,  then  I  pepper-potted, — I  mean  I  went 


74  The  Light  that  Failed 

to  the  National, — and  now  I'm  working  under 
Kami." 

"  But  Kami  is  in  Paris  surely  ?" 

"No;  he  has  his  teaching  studio  at  Vitry-sur- 
Marne.  I  work  with  him  in  the  summer,  and  I 
live  in  London  in  the  winter.  I'm  a  house- 
holder." 

"  Do  you  sell  much  ?" 

"Now  and  again,  but  not  often.  There  is  my 
'bus.  I  must  take  it  or  lose  half  an  hour.  Good- 
bye, Dick." 

"  Good-bye,  Maisie.  Won't  you  tell  me  where 
you  live  ?  I  must  see  you  again;  and  perhaps  I 
could  help  you.     I — I  paint  a  little  myself." 

"  I  may  be  in  the  Park  to-morrow,  if  there  is 
no  working  light.  I  walk  from  the  Marble  Arch 
down  and  back  again;  that  is  my  little  excursion. 
But  of  course  I  shall  see  you  again."  She  stepped 
into  the  omnibus  and  was  swallowed  up  by  the 
fog. 

"Well — I — am — damned!"  exclaimed  Dick, 
and  returned  to  the  chambers. 

Torpenhow  and  the  Nilghai  found  him  sitting 
on  the  steps  to  the  studio  door,  repeating  the 
phrase  with  an  awful  gravity. 

"  You'll  be  more  damned  when  I've  done  with 
you,"  said  the  Nilghai,  upheaving  his  bulk  from 
behind  Torpenhow's  shoulder  and  waving  a  sheaf 
of  half-dry  manuscript.     "  Dick,  it  is  of  common 


The  Light  that  Failed  75 

report  that  you  are  suffering  from  swelled 
h<ad." 

"Halloo,  Nilghai.  Back  again?  How  are  the 
Balkans  and  all  the  little  Balkans  ?  One  side  of 
your  face  is  out  of  drawing,  as  usual." 

"Never  mind  that.  I  am  commissioned  to 
smite  you  in  print.  Torpenhow  refuses  from 
false  delicacy.  I've  been  overhauling  the  pot- 
boilers in  your  studio.  They  are  simply  dis- 
graceful." 

"Oho!  that's  it,  is  it?  If  you  think  you  can 
slate  me,  you're  wrong.  You  can  only  describe, 
and  you  need  as  much  room  to  turn  in,  on  paper, 
as  a  P.  and  O.  cargo-boat.  But  continue,  and  be 
swift.     I'm  going  to  bed." 

"H'm!  h'm!  h'm!  The  first  part  only  deals 
with  your  pictures.  Here's  the  peroration:  'For 
work  done  without  conviction,  for  power  wasted 
on  trivialities,  for  labor  expended  with  levity  for 
the  deliberate  purpose  of  winning  the  easy  ap- 
plause of  a  fashion-driven  public '  " — 

"That's  'His  Last  Shot,' second  edition.  Go 
on. 

" '  public,  there  remains  but  one  end, — the 

oblivion  that  is  preceded  by  toleration  and  ceno- 
taphed  with  contempt.  From  that  fate  Mr.  Hel- 
dar  has  yet  to  prove  himself  out  of  danger.'" 

"  Wow — wow — wow — wow — wow!  "  said  Dick, 
profanely.     "  It's  a  clumsy  ending  and  vile  jour- 


76  The  Light  that  Failed 

nalese,  but  it's  quite  true.  And  yet," — he  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  snatched  at  the  manuscript, — ' '  you 
scarred,  deboshed,  battered  old  gladiator!  you're 
sent  out  when  a  war  begins,  to  minister  to  the 
blind,  brutal,  British  public's  bestial  thirst  for 
blood.  They  have  no  arenas  now,  but  they  must 
have  special  correspondents.  You're  a  fat  gladia- 
tor who  comes  up  through  a  trapdoor  and  talks 
of  what  he's  seen.  You  stand  on  precisely  the 
same  level  as  an  energetic  bishop,  an  affable  ac- 
tress, a  devastating  cyclone,  or — mine  own  sweet 
self.  And  you  presume  to  lecture  me  about  my 
work!  Nilghai,  if  it  were  worth  while  I'd  cari- 
cature you  in  four  papers! " 

The  Nilghai  winced.  He  had  not  thought  of 
this. 

"  As  it  is,  I  shall  take  this  stuff  and  tear  it  small 
— so!"  The  manuscript  fluttered  in  slips  down 
the  dark  well  of  the  staircase.  "Go  home,  Nil- 
ghai," said  Dick;  "go  home  to  your  lonely  little 
bed,  and  leave  me  in  peace.  I  am  about  to  turn 
in  till  to-morrow." 

"Why,  it  isn't  seven  yet!"  said  Torpenhow, 
with  amazement. 

"It  shall  be  two  in  the  morning,  if  I  choose," 
said  Dick,  backing  to  the  studio  door.  "  I  go  to 
grapple  with  a  serious  crisis,  and  I  shan't  want 
any  dinner." 

The  door  shut  and  was  locked. 


The  Light  that  Failed  jj 

"  What  can  you  do  with  a  man  like  that  ?  "  said 
the  Nilghai. 

"  Leave  him  alone.     He's  as  mad  as  a  hatter." 

At  eleven  there  was  kicking  on  the  studio  door. 
"  Is  the  Nilghai  with  you  still  ?  "  said  a  voice  from 
within.  "  Then  tell  him  he  might  have  condensed 
the  whole  of  his  lumbering  nonsense  into  an  epi- 
gram: 'Only  the  free  are  bond,  and  only  the 
bond  are  free.'  Tell  him  he's  an  idiot,  Torp,  and 
tell  him  I'm  another." 

"All  right.  Come  out  and  have  supper. 
You're  smoking  on  an  empty  stomach." 

There  was  no  answer. 


CHAPTER  V 

«•  I  have  a  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"  To  wait  upon  my  will, 
And  towers  nine  upon  the  Tyne, 
And  three  upon  the  Till." 

"  And  what  care  I  for  your  men,"  said  she, 
"  Or  towers  from  Tyne  to  Till, 
Sith  you  must  go  with  me,"  she  said, 
"  To  wait  upon  my  will  ?  " 

— Sir  Hoggie  and  the  Fairies. 

Next  morning  Torpenhow  found  Dick  sunk  in 
deepest  repose  of  tobacco. 

"Well,  madman,  how  d'you feel ? " 
"  I  don't  know.     I'm  trying  to  find  out." 
"You  had  much  better  do  some  work." 
"Maybe;  but  I'm  in  no  hurry.    I've  made  a 
discovery.    Torp,  there's  too  much  Ego  in  my 
Cosmos." 

"Not  really!  Is  this  revelation  due  to  my  lec- 
tures, or  the  Nilghai's  ?  " 

"It  came  to  me  suddenly,  all  on  my  own  ac- 
count. Much  too  much  Ego;  and  now  I'm  going 
to  work." 

He  turned  over  a  few  half-finished  sketches, 
drummed  on  a  new  canvas,  cleaned  three  brushes, 
set  Binkie  to  bite  the  toes  of  the  lay-figure,  rattled 
78 


The  Light  that  Failed  79 

through  his  collection  of  arms  and  accoutrements, 
and  then  went  out  abruptly,  declaring  that  he  had 
done  enough  for  the  day. 

'*  This  is  positively  indecent,"  said  Torpenhow, 
"and  the  first  time  that  Dick  has  ever  broken  up 
a  light  morning.  Perhaps  he  has  found  out  that 
he  has  a  soul,  or  an  artistic  temperament,  or 
something  equally  valuable.  That  comes  of  leav- 
ing him  alone  for  a  month.  Perhaps  he  has  been 
going  out  of  evenings.  I  must  look  to  this."  He 
rang  for  the  baldheaded  old  housekeeper,  whom 
nothing  could  astonish  or  annoy. 

"  Beeton,  did  Mr.  Heldar  dine  out  at  all  while  I 
was  out  of  town  ?  " 

"Never  laid  'is  dress-clothes  out  once,  sir,  all 
the  time.  Mostly  'e  dined  in;  but  'e  brought 
some  most  remarkable  fancy  young  gentlemen 
up  'ere  after  theatres  once  or  twice.  Remark- 
able fancy  they  was.  You  gentlemen  on  the  top 
floor  does  very  much  as  you  likes,  but  it  do  seem 
to  me,  sir,  droppin'  a  walkin'-stick  down  five 
flights  0'  stairs  an'  then  goin'  down  four  abreast 
to  pick  it  up  again  at  half-past  two  in  the  mornin' 
singin',  '  Bring  back  the  whiskey,  Willie  darlin',' 
— not  once,  or  twice,  but  scores  o'  times, — isn't 
charity  to  the  other  tenants.  What  I  say  is,  '  Do 
as  you  would  be  done  by.'    That's  my  motto." 

"Of  course!  of  course!  I'm  afraid  the  top 
floor  isn't  the  quietest  in  the  house." 


80  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  I  make  no  complaints,  sir.  I  have  spoke  to 
Mr.  Heldar  friendly,  an'  he  laughed,  an'  did  me  a 
picture  of  the  missis  that  is  as  good  as  a  colored 
print.  It  'asn't  the  'igh  shine  of  a  photograph, 
but  what  I  say  is,  'Never  look  a  gift-horse  in  the 
mouth.'  Mr.  Heldar's  dress-clothes  'aven't  been 
on  him  for  weeks." 

"Then  it's  all  right,"  said  Torpenhow  to  him- 
self. "Orgies  are  healthy,  and  Dick  has  a  head 
of  his  own,  but  when  it  comes  to  women  mak- 
ing eyes  I'm  not  so  certain. — Binkie,  never  you  be 
a  man,  little  dorglums,  They're  contrary  brutes, 
and  they  do  things  without  any  reason." 

Dick  had  turned  northward  across  the  Park, 
but  he  was  walking  in  the  spirit  on  the  mud-flats 
with  Maisie.  He  laughed  aloud  as  he  remem- 
bered the  day  when  he  had  decked  Amomma's 
horns  with  the  ham-frills,  and  Maisie,  white  with 
rage,  had  cuffed  him.  How  long  those  four  years 
seemed  in  review,  and  how  closely  Maisie  was 
connected  with  every  hour  of  them!  Storm 
across  the  sea,  and  Maisie  in  a  grey  dress  on  the 
beach,  sweeping  her  drenched  hair  out  of  her 
eyes  and  laughing  at  the  homeward  race  of  the 
fishing-smacks;  hot  sunshine  on  the  mud-flats, 
and  Maisie  sniffing  scornfully,  with  her  chin  in 
the  air;  Maisie  flying  before  the  wind  that  threshed 
the  foreshore  and  drove  the  sand  like  small  shot 
about  her  ears;  Maisie,  very  composed  and  inde- 


The  Light  that  Failed  81 

pendent,  telling  lies  to  Mrs.  Jennet  while  Dick 
supported  her  with  coarser  perjuries;  Maisie  pick- 
ing her  way  delicately  from  stone  to  stone,  a 
pistol  in  her  hand  and  her  teeth  firm-set;  and 
Maisie  in  a  grey  dress  sitting  on  the  grass  be- 
tween the  mouth  of  a  cannon  and  a  nodding 
yellow  sea-poppy.  The  pictures  passed  before 
him  one  by  one,  and  the  last  stayed  the  longest. 
Dick  was  perfectly  happy  with  a  quiet  peace  that 
was  as  new  to  his  mind  as  it  was  foreign  to  his 
experience.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  there 
might  be  other  calls  upon  his  time  than  loafing 
across  the  Park  in  the  forenoon. 

"There's  a  good  working  light  now,"  he  said, 
watching  his  shadow  placidly.  "Some  poor 
devil  ought  to  be  grateful  for  this.  And  there's 
Maisie." 

She  was  walking  toward  him  from  the  Marble 
Arch,  and  he  saw  that  no  mannerism  of  her  gait 
had  been  changed.  It  was  good  to  find  her  still 
Maisie,  and,  so  to  speak,  his  next-door  neighbor. 
No  greeting  passed  between  them,  because  there 
had  been  none  in  the  old  days. 

"What  are  you  doing  out  of  your  studio  at 
this  hour  ? "  said  Dick,  as  one  who  was  entitled 
to  ask. 

"  Idling.  Just  idling.  I  got  angry  with  a  chin 
and  scraped  it  out.  Then  I  left  it  in  a  little  heap 
of  paint-chips  and  came  away." 


8a  The  Light  that  Failed 

"I  know  what  palette-knifing  means.  What 
was  the  piccy  ?" 

"A  fancy  head  that  wouldn't  come  right, — 
horrid  thing!" 

"  I  don't  like  working  over  scraped  paint  when 
I'm  doing  flesh.  The  grain  comes  up  woolly  as 
the  paint  dries." 

"Not  if  you  scrape  properly."  Maisie  waved 
her  hand  to  illustrate  her  methods.  There  was  a 
dab  of  paint  on  the  white  cuff.     Dick  laughed. 

"You're  as  untidy  as  ever." 

"That  comes  well  from  you.  Look  at  your 
own  cuff." 

"By  Jove,  yes!  It's  worse  than  yours.  I  don't 
think  we've  much  altered  in  anything.  Let's  see, 
though."  He  looked  at  Maisie  critically.  The 
pale  blue  haze  of  an  autumn  day  crept  between 
the  tree-trunks  of  the  Park  and  made  a  back- 
ground for  the  grey  dress,  the  black  velvet  toque 
above  the  black  hair,  and  the  resolute  profile. 

"No,  there's  nothing  changed.  How  good  it 
is!  D'you  remembei  when  I  fastened  your  hair 
into  the  snap  of  a  hand-bag  ?" 

Maisie  nodded,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  and 
turned  her  full  face  to  Dick. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  he.  "That  mouth  is 
down  in  the  corners  a  little.  Who's  been  worry- 
ing you,  Maisie?" 

"No  one  but  myself.     I  never  seem  to  get  on 


The  Light  that  Failed  83 

with  my  work,  and  yet  1  try  hard  enough,  and 
Kami  says  " — 

"'  Continue^,  mesdemoiselles.  Continue^  tou- 
jour s,  mes  en/ants.'  Kami  is  depressing.  I  beg 
your  pardon." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  he  says.  He  told  me  last 
summer  that  I  was  doing  better  and  he'd  let  me 
exhibit  this  year." 

"Not  in  this  place,  surely  ?" 

"  Of  course  not.     The  Salon." 

"You  fly  high." 

"  I've  been  beating  my  wings  long  enough. 
Where  do  you  exhibit,  Dick?" 

"I  don't  exhibit.     I  sell." 

"  What  is  your  line,  then  ?  " 

"Haven't  you  heard?"  Dick's  eyes  opened. 
Was  this  thing  possible  ?  He  cast  about  for  some 
means  of  conviction.  They  were  not  far  from 
the  Marble  Arch.  "Come  up  Oxford  Street  a 
little  and  I'll  show  you." 

A  small  knot  of  people  stood  round  a  print- 
shop  that  Dick  knew  well.  "Some reproduction 
of  my  work  inside,"  he  said,  with  suppressed 
triumph.  Never  before  had  success  tasted  so 
sweet  upon  the  tongue.  "You  see  the  sort  of 
things  1  paint.     D'you  like  it?" 

Maisie  looked  at  the  wild  whirling  rush  of  a 
field-battery  going  into  action  under  fire.  Two 
artillerymen  stood  behind  her  in  the  crowd. 


&j  The  Light  that  Failed 

"They've  chucked  the  off  lead-'orse,"  said  one 
to  the  other.  "'E's  tore  up  awful,  but  they're 
makin'  good  time  with  the  others.  That  lead- 
driver  drives  better  nor  you,  Tom.  See  'ow  cun- 
nin'  'e's  nursin'  'is  'orse." 

"Number  Three'U  be  off  the  limber,  next  jolt," 
was  the  answer. 

"No,  'e  won't.  See  'ow  'is  foot's  braced 
against  the  iron  ?    'E's  all  right." 

Dick  watched  Maisie's  face  and  swelled  with 
joy — fine,  rank,  vulgar  triumph.  She  was  more 
interested  in  the  little  crowd  than  in  the  picture. 
That  was  something  that  she  could  understand. 

"And  I  wanted  it  so!  Oh,  I  did  want  it  so! " 
she  said  at  last,  under  her  breath. 

"  Me, — all  me! "  said  Dick,  placidly.  "  Look  at 
their  faces.  It  hits  'em.  They  don't  know  what 
makes  their  eyes  and  mouths  open ;  but  I  know. 
And  I  know  my  work's  right." 

"Yes.  I  see.  Oh,  what  a  thing  to  have  come 
to  one!" 

"Come  to  one,  indeed!  I  had  to  go  out  and 
look  for  it.    What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  call  it  success.     Tell  me  how  you  got  it." 

They  returned  to  the  Park,  and  Dick  delivered 
himself  of  the  saga  of  his  own  doings,  with  all 
the  arrogance  of  a  young  man  speaking  to  a 
woman.  From  the  beginning  he  told  the  tale, 
the  I — I — l's  flashing  through  the  records  as  tele- 


The  Light  that  Failed  85 

graph-poles  fly  past  the  traveler.  Maisie  lis- 
tened and  nodded  her  head.  The  histories  of 
strife  and  privation  did  not  move  her  a  hair's- 
breadth.  At  the  end  of  each  canto  he  would 
conclude,  "  And  that  gave  me  some  notion  of 
handling  color,"  or  light,  or  whatever  it  might  be 
that  he  had  set  out  to  pursue  and  understand. 
He  led  her  breathless  across  half  the  world,  speak- 
ing as  he  had  never  spoken  in  his  life  before. 
And  in  the  flood-tide  of  his  exaltation  there  came 
upon  him  a  great  desire  to  pick  up  this  maiden 
who  nodded  her  head  and  said,  "1  understand. 
Go  on," — to  pick  her  up  and  carry  her  away 
with  him,  because  she  was  Maisie,  and  because 
she  understood,  and  because  she  was  his  right, 
and  a  woman  to  be  desired  above  all  women. 

Then  he  checked  himself  abruptly.  "  And  so 
1  took  all  I  wanted,"  he  said,  "and  had  to  fight 
for  it.    Now  you  tell." 

Maisie's  tale  was  almost  as  grey  as  her  dress. 
It  covered  years  of  patient  toil  backed  by  savage 
pride  that  would  not  be  broken  though  dealers 
laughed,  and  fogs  delayed  work,  and  Kami  was 
unkind  and  even  sarcastic,  and  girls  in  other 
studios  were  painfully  polite.  It  had  a  few 
bright  spots,  in  pictures  accepted  at  provincial 
exhibitions,  but  it  wound  up  with  the  oft-re- 
peated wail,  "  And  so  you  see,  Dick.  I  had  no 
success,  though  I  worked  so  hard." 


86  The  Light  that  Failed 

Then  pity  filled  Dick.  Even  thus  had  Maisie 
spoken  when  she  could  not  hit  the  breakwater, 
half  an  hour  before  she  had  kissed  him.  And 
that  had  happened  yesterday. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said.  "I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing, if  you'll  believe  it."  The  words  were 
shaping  themselves  of  their  own  accord.  "The 
whole  thing,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel,  isn't  worth 
one  big  yellow  sea-poppy  below  Fort  Keeling." 

Maisie  flushed  a  little.  "It's  all  very  well  for 
you  to  talk,  but  you've  had  the  success  and  I 
haven't." 

"  Let  me  talk,  then.  I  know  you'll  understand. 
Maisie,  dear,  it  sounds  a  bit  absurd,  but  those  ten 
years  never  existed,  and  I've  come  back  again. 
It  really  is  just  the  same.  Can't  you  see  ?  You're 
alone  now  and  I'm  alone.  What's  the  use  of 
worrying  ?    Come  to  me  instead,  darling." 

Maisie  poked  the  gravel  with  her  parasol. 
They  were  sitting  on  a  bench.  "I  understand," 
she  said,  slowly.  "  But  I've  got  my  work  to  do, 
and  I  must  do  it." 

"Do  it  with  me,  then,  dear.  I  won't  inter- 
rupt." 

"  No,  I  couldn't.  It's  my  work, — mine, — mine, 
— mine!  I've  been  alone  all  my  life  in  myself, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  belong  to  anybody  except 
myself.  I  remember  things  as  well  as  you  do, 
but  that  doesn't  count.     We  were  babies  then, 


The  Light  that  Failed  87 

and  we  didn't  know  what  was  before  us.  Dick, 
don't  be  selfish.  I  think  I  see  my  way  to  a  little 
success  next  year.    Don't  take  it  away  from  me." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  darling.  It's  my  fault  for 
speaking  stupidly.  I  can't  expect  you  to  throw 
up  all  your  life  just  because  I'm  back.  I'll  go  to 
my  own  place  and  wait  a  little." 

"But,  Dick,  I  don't  want  you  to — go — out  of 
— my  life,  now  you've  just  come  back." 

"I'm  at  your  orders;  forgive  me."  Dick  de- 
voured the  troubled  little  face  with  his  eyes. 
There  was  triumph  in  them,  because  he  could 
not  conceive  that  Maisie  should  refuse  sooner  or 
later  to  love  him,  since  he  loved  her. 

"It's  wrong  of  me,"  said  Maisie,  more  slowly 
than  before;  "It's  wrong  and  selfish;  but,  oh, 
I've  been  so  lonely!  No,  you  misunderstand. 
Now  I've  seen  you  again, — it's  absurd,  but  I 
want  to  keep  you  in  my  life." 

' '  Naturally.    We  belong. " 

"We  don't;  but  you  always  understood  me, 
and  there  is  so  much  in  my  work  that  you  could 
help  me  in.  You  know  things  and  the  ways  of 
doing  things.    You  must." 

"I  do,  I  fancy,  or  else  I  don't  know  myself. 
Then  I  suppose  you  won't  care  to  lose  sight  of 
me  altogether,  and  you  want  me  to  help  you  in 
your  work?" 

"Yes;  but  remember,  Dick,  nothing  will  ever 


88  The  Light  that  Failed 

come  of  it.  That's  why  I  feel  so  selfish.  Let 
things  stay  as  they  are.     I  do  want  your  help." 

"You  shall  have  it.  But  let's  consider.  I 
must  see  your  pics  first,  and  overhaul  your 
sketches,  and  find  out  about  your  tendencies. 
You  should  see  what  the  papers  say  about  my 
tendencies!  Then  I'll  give  you  good  advice,  and 
you  shall  paint  according.     Isn't  that  it,  Maisie?" 

Again  there  was  unholy  triumph  in  Dick's  eye. 

"It's  too  good  of  you, — much  too  good.  Be- 
cause you  are  consoling  yourself  with  what  will 
never  happen,  and  I  know  that,  and  yet  I  wish  to 
keep  you.     Don't  blame  me  later,  please." 

"I'm  going  into  the  matter  with  my  eyes 
open.  Moreover,  the  queen  can  do  no  wrong. 
It  isn't  your  selfishness  that  impresses  me.  It's 
your  audacity  in  proposing  to  make  use  of  me." 

"  Pooh !   You're  only  Dick, — and  a  print-shop." 

"Very  good:  that's  all  I  am.  But,  Maisie, 
you  believe,  don't  you,  that  I  love  you  ?  I  don't 
want  you  to  have  any  false  notions  about  broth- 
ers and  sisters." 

Maisie  looked  up  for  a  moment  and  dropped 
her  eyes. 

"It's  absurd,  but— I  believe.  I  wish  I  could 
send  you  away  before  you  get  angry  with  me. 
But— but  the  girl  that  lives  with  me  is  red- 
haired,  and  an  impressionist,  and  all  our  notions 
clash." 


The  Light  that  Failed  89 

"So  do  ours,  I  think.  Never  mind.  Three 
montns  from  to-day  we  shall  be  laughing  at  this 
together." 

Maisie  shook  her  head  mournfully.  "  I  knew 
you  wouldn't  understand,  and  it  will  only  hurt 
you  more  when  you  find  out.  Look  at  my  face, 
Dick,  and  tell  me  what  you  see." 

They  stood  up  and  faced  each  other  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  fog  was  gathering,  and  it  stifled  the 
roar  of  the  traffic  of  London  beyond  the  railings. 
Dick  brought  all  his  painfully-acquired  knowl- 
edge of  faces  to  bear  on  the  eyes,  mouth,  and 
chin  underneath  the  black  velvet  toque. 

"It's  the  same  Maisie,  and  it's  the  same  me," 
he  said.  "We've  both  nice  little  wills  of  our 
own,  and  one  or  other  of  us  has  to  be  broken. 
Now  about  the  future.  I  must  come  and  see 
your  pictures  some  day, — I  suppose  when  the 
red-haired  girl  is  on  the  premises." 

"  Sundays  are  my  best  times.  You  must  come 
on  Sundays.  There  are  such  heaps  of  things  I 
want  to  talk  about  and  ask  your  advice  about. 
Now  I  must  get  back  to  work." 

"Try  to  find  out  before  next  Sunday  what  I 
am,"  said  Dick.     "Don't  take  my  word  for  any 
thing   I've  told   you.    Good-bye,   darling,   and 
bless  you." 

Maisie  stole  away  like  a  little  grey  mouse. 
Dick  watched  her  till  she  was  out  of  sight,  but 


90  The  Light  that  Failed 

he  did  not  hear  her  say  to  herself,  very  soberly, 
"I'm  a  wretch, — a  horrid,  selfish  wretcft.  But 
it's  Dick,  and  Dick  will  understand." 

No  one  has  yet  explained  what  actually  hap- 
pens when  an  irresistible  force  meets  the  im- 
movable post,  though  many  have  thought 
deeply,  even  as  Dick  thought.  He  tried  to  as- 
sure himself  that  Maisie  would  be  led  in  a  few 
weeks  by  his  mere  presence  and  discourse  to  a 
better  way  of  thinking.  Then  he  remembered 
much  too  distinctly  her  face  and  all  that  was 
written  on  it. 

"If  I  know  anything  of  heads,"  he  said, 
"there's  everything  in  that  face  but  love.  I  shall 
have  to  put  that  in  myself;  and  that  chin  and 
mouth  won't  be  won  for  nothing.  But  she's 
right.  She  knows  what  she  wants,  and  she's 
going  to  get  it.  What  insolence!  Me!  Of  all 
the  people  in  the  wide  world,  to  use  me!  But 
then  she's  Maisie.  There's  no  getting  over  that 
fact;  and  it's  good  to  see  her  again.  This  busi- 
ness must  have  been  simmering  at  the  back  of 
my  head  for  years.  .  .  .  She'll  use  me  as  I 
used  Binat  at  Port  Said.  She's  quite  right.  It 
will  hurt  a  little.  I  shall  have  to  see  her  every 
Sunday, — like  a  young  man  courting  a  house- 
maid. She's  sure  to  come  round;  and  yet — that 
mouth  isn't  a  yielding  mouth.  I  shall  be  want- 
ing to  kiss  her  all  the  time,  and  I  shall  have  to 


The  Light  that  Failed  91 

look  at  her  pictures, — I  don't  even  know  what 
sort  of  work  she  does  yet,  and  I  shall  have  to 
talk  about  Art, — Woman's  Art!  Therefore,  par- 
ticularly and  perpetually,  damn  all  varieties  of 
Art.  It  did  me  a  good  turn  once,  and  now  it's  in 
my  way.     I'll  go  home  and  do  some  Art." 

Half-way  to  the  studio,  Dick  was  smitten  with 
a  terrible  thought.  The  figure  of  a  solitary  woman 
in  the  fog  suggested  it. 

"She's  all  alone  in  London,  with  a  red-haired 
impressionist  girl,  who  probably  has  the  digestion 
of  an  ostrich.  Most  red-haired  people  have. 
Maisie's  a  bilious  little  body.  They'll  eat  like 
lone  women, — meals  at  all  hours,  and  tea  with 
all  meals.  I  remember  how  the  students  in  Paris 
used  to  pig  along.  She  may  fall  ill  at  any  min- 
ute, and  I  shan't  be  able  to  help.  Whewl  this  is 
ten  times  worse  than  owning  a  wife." 

Torpenhow  came  into  the  studio  at  dusk,  and 
looked  at  Dick  with  his  eyes  full  of  the  austere 
love  that  springs  up  between  men  who  have 
tugged  at  the  same  oar  together  and  are  yoked 
by  custom  and  use  and  the  intimacies  of  toil. 
This  is  a  good  love,  and,  since  it  allows,  and 
even  encourages,  strife,  recrimination,  and  the 
most  brutal  sincerity,  does  not  die,  but  increases, 
and  is  proof  against  any  absence  and  evil  con- 
duct. 

Dick  was  silent  after  he  handed  Torpenhow 


92  The  Light  that  Failed 

the  filled  pipe  of  council.  He  thought  of  Maisie 
and  her  possible  needs.  It  was  a  new  thing  to 
think  of  anybody  but  Torpenhow,  who  could 
think  for  himself.  Here  at  last  was  an  outlet  for 
that  cash  balance.  He  could  adorn  Maisie  bar- 
barically  with  jewelry, — a  thick  gold  necklace 
round  that  little  neck,  bracelets  upon  the  rounded 
arms,  and  rings  of  price  upon  her  hands, — the 
cool,  temperate,  ringless  hands  that  he  had  taken 
between  his  own.  It  was  an  absurd  thought, 
for  Maisie  would  not  even  allow  him  to  put  one 
ring  on  one  finger,  and  she  would  laugh  at 
golden  trappings.  It  would  be  better  to  sit  with 
her  quietly  in  the  dusk,  his  arm  round  her  neck 
and  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  as  befitted  husband 
and  wife.  Torpenhow's  boots  creaked  that  night, 
and  his  strong  voice  jarred.  Dick's  brows  con- 
tracted and  he  murmured  an  evil  word  because 
he  had  taken  all  his  success  as  a  right  and  part 
payment  for  past  discomfort,  and  now  he  was 
checked  in  his  stride  by  a  woman  who  ad- 
mitted all  the  success  and  did  not  instantly  care 
for  him. 

"  I  say,  old  man,"  said  Torpenhow,  who  had 
made  one  or  two  vain  attempts  at  conversation, 
"I  haven't  put  your  back  up  by  anything  I've 
said  lately,  have  I  ?  " 

"You!    No.    How  could  you?" 

"  Liver  out  of  order  ?  " 


The  Light  that  Failed  93 

"The  truly  healthy  man  doesn't  know  he  has 
a  liver.  I'm  only  a  bit  worried  about  things  in 
general.     1  suppose  it's  my  soul." 

"The  truly  healthy  man  doesn't  know  he  has  a 
soul.  What  business  have  you  with  luxuries  of 
that  kind?" 

"  It  came  of  itself.  Who's  the  man  that  says 
that  we're  all  islands  shouting  lies  to  each  other 
across  seas  of  misunderstanding?" 

"  He's  right,  whoever  he  is, — except  about  the 
misunderstanding.  I  don't  think  we  could  mis- 
understand each  other." 

The  blue  smoke  curled  back  from  the  ceiling  in 
clouds.    Then  Torpenhow,  insinuatingly  — 

"Dick,  is  it  a  woman ? " 

"  Be  hanged  if  it's  anything  remotely  resemb- 
ling a  woman;  and  if  you  begin  to  talk  like  that, 
I'll  hire  a  red-brick  studio  with  white  paint  trim- 
mings, and  begonias  and  petunias  and  blue  Hun- 
garias  to  play  among  three-and-sixpenny  pot- 
palms,  and  I'll  mount  all  my  pics  in  aniline-dye 
plush  plasters,  and  I'll  invite  every  woman  who 
yelps  and  maunders  and  moans  over  what  her 
guide-books  tell  her  is  Art,  and  you  shall  receive 
'em,  Torp, — in  a  snuff-brown  velvet  coat  with 
yellow  trousers  and  an  orange  tie.  You'll  like 
that." 

"Too  thin,  Dick.  A  better  man  than  you 
denied  with  cursing  and  swearing  on  a  memorable 


94  The  Light  that  Failed 

occasion.  You've  overdone  it,  just  as  he  did.  It's 
no  business  of  mine,  of  course,  but  it's  comfort- 
ing to  think  that  somewhere  under  the  stars 
there's  saving  up  for  you  a  tremendous  thrashing. 
Whether  it'll  come  from  heaven  or  earth,  I  don't 
know,  but  it's  bound  to  come  and  break  you  up 
a  little.     You  want  hammering." 

Dick  shivered.  "All  right,"  said  he.  "When 
this  island  is  disintegrated  it  will  call  for  you." 

"  I  shall  come  round  the  corner  and  help  to  dis- 
integrate it  some  more.  We're  talking  nonsense. 
Come  along  to  a  theatre." 


y 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  And  you  may  lead  a  thousand  men, 
Nor  ever  draw  the  rein, 
But  ere  ye  lead  the  Faery  Queen 
'Twill  burst  your  heart  in  twain." 

He  has  slipped  his  foot  from  the  stirrup-bar, 

The  bridle  from  his  hand, 
And  he  is  bound  by  hand  and  foot 

To  the  Queen  o'  Faery-land. 

— Sir  Hoggie  and  the  Fairies. 

Some  weeks  later,  on  a  very  foggy  Sunday, 
Dick  was  returning  across  the  Park  to  his  studio. 
"This,"  he  said,  "is  evidently  the  thrashing  that 
Torp  meant.  It  hurts  more  than  I  expected;  but 
the  queen  can  do  no  wrong;  and  she  certainly 
has  some  notion  of  drawing." 

He  had  just  finished  a  Sunday  visit  to  Maisie, 
— always  under  the  green  eyes  of  the  red-haired 
impressionist  girl,  whom  he  learned  to  hate  at 
sight, — and  was  tingling  with  a  keen  sense  of 
shame.  Sunday  after  Sunday,  putting  on  his  best 
clothes,  he  had  walked  over  to  the  untidy  house 
north  of  the  Park,  first  to  see  Maisie's  pictures, 
and  then  to  criticise  and  advise  upon  them  as  he 
realized  that  they  were  productions  on  which  ad- 
vice would  not  be  wasted.  Sunday  after  Sunday, 
95 


96  The  Light  that  Failed 

and  his  love  grew  with  each  visit,  he  had  been 
compelled  to  cram  his  heart  back  from  between 
his  lips  when  it  prompted  him  to  kiss  Maisie 
several  times  and  very  much  indeed.  Sunday 
after  Sunday,  the  head  above  the  heart  had 
warned  him  that  Maisie  was  not  yet  attainable, 
and  that  it  would  be  better  to  talk  as  connectedly 
as  possible  upon  the  mysteries  of  the  craft  that 
was  all  in  all  to  her.  Therefore  it  was  his  fate  to 
endure  weekly  torture  in  the  studio  built  out  over 
the  clammy  back  garden  of  a  frail  stuffy  little 
villa  where  nothing  was  ever  in  its  right  place 
and  nobody  ever  called, — to  endure  and  to  watch 
Maisie  moving  to  and  fro  with  the  teacups.  He 
abhorred  tea,  but,  since  it  gave  him  a  little  longer 
time  in  her  presence,  he  drank  it  devoutly,  and 
the  red-haired  girl  sat  in  an  untidy  heap  and  eyed 
him  without  speaking.  She  was  always  watch- 
ing him.  Once,  and  only  once,  when  she  had 
left  the  studio,  Maisie  showed  him  an  album  that 
held  a  few  poor  cuttings  from  provincial  papers, 
— the  briefest  of  hurried  notes  on  some  of  her 
pictures  sent  to  outlying  exhibitions.  Dick 
stooped  and  kissed  the  paint-smudged  thumb  on 
the  open  page.  "Oh,  my  love,  my  love,"  he 
muttered,  "do  you  value  these  things?  Chuck 
'em  into  the  waste-paper  basket!" 

"Not  till  I  get  something  better,"  said  Maisie. 
shutting  the  book. 


The  Light  that  Failed  97 

Then  Dick,  moved  by  no  respect  for  his  public 
and  a  very  deep  regard  for  the  maiden,  did  de- 
liberately propose,  in  order  to  secure  more  of 
these  coveted  cuttings,  that  he  should  paint  a 
picture  which  Maisie  should  sign. 

"That's  childish,"  said  Maisie,  "and  I  didn't 
think  it  of  you.  It  must  be  my  work.  Mine, — 
mine, — mine!" 

"Go  and  design  decorative  medallions  for  rich 
brewers'  houses.  You  are  thoroughly  good  at 
that."    Dick  was  sick  and  savage. 

"  Better  things  than  medallions,  Dick,"  was  the 
answer,  in  tones  that  recalled  a  grey-eyed  atom's 
fearless  speech  to  Mrs.  Jennett.  Dick  would 
have  abased  himself  utterly,  but  that  the  other 
girl  trailed  in. 

Next  Sunday  he  laid  at  Maisie's  feet  small  gifts 
of  pencils  that  could  almost  draw  of  themselves 
and  colors  in  whose  permanence  he  believed,  and 
he  was  ostentatiously  attentive  to  the  work  in 
hand.  It  demanded,  among  other  things,  -an  ex- 
position of  the  faith  that  was  in  him.  Torpen- 
how's  hair  would  have  stood  on  end  had  he  heard 
the  fluency  with  which  Dick  preached  his  own 
gospel  of  Art. 

A  month  before,  Dick  would  have  been  equally 
astonished;  but  it  was  Maisie's  will  and  pleasure, 
and  he  dragged  his  words  together  to  make  plain 
to  her  comprehension  all  that  had  been  hidden  to 


98  The  Light  that  Failed 

himself  of  the  whys  and  wherefores  of  work. 
There  is  not  the  least  difficulty  in  doing  a  thing 
if  you  only  know  how  to  do  it;  the  trouble  is  to 
explain  your  method. 

"I  could  put  this  right  if  I  had  a  brush  in  my 
hand,"  said  Dick,  despairingly,  over  the  modeling 
of  a  chin  that  Maisie complained  would  not  "look 
flesh," — it  was  the  same  chin  that  she  had  scraped 
out  with  the  palette-knife, — "  but  I  find  it  almost 
impossible  to  teach  you.  There's  a  queer  grim 
Dutch  touch  about  your  painting  that  1  like;  but 
I've  a  notion  that  you're  weak  in  drawing.  You 
foreshorten  as  though  you  never  used  the  model, 
and  you've  caught  Kami's  pasty  way  of  dealing 
with  flesh  in  shadow.  Then,  again,  though  you 
don't  know  it  yourself,  you  shirk  hard  work. 
Suppose  you  spend  some  of  your  time  on  line 
alone.  Line  doesn't  allow  of  shirking.  Oils  do, 
and  three  square  inches  of  flashy,  tricky  stuff 
in  the  corner  of  a  pic  sometimes  carry  a  bad  thing 
off, — as  I  know.  That's  immoral.  Do  line- 
work  for  a  little  while,  and  then  I  can  tell  more 
about  your  powers,  as  old  Kami  used  to  say." 

Maisie  protested :  she  did  not  care  for  the  pure 
line. 

"  I  know,"  said  Dick.  "You  want  to  do  your 
fancy  heads  with  a  bunch  of  flowers  at  the  base 
of  the  neck  to  hide  bad  modeling."  The  red- 
haired  girl  laughed  a  little.     "  You  want  to  do 


The  Light  that  Failed  99 

landscapes  with  cattle  knee-deep  in  grass  to  hide 
bad  drawing.  You  want  to  do  a  great  deal 
more  than  you  can  do.  You  have  sense  of  color, 
but  you  want  form.  Color's  a  gift, — put  it  aside 
and  think  no  more  about  it, — but  form  you  can 
be  drilled  into.  Now,  all  your  fancy  heads — and 
some  of  them  are  very  good — will  keep  you  ex- 
actly where  you  are.  With  line  you  must  go 
forward  or  backward,  and  it  will  show  up  all 
your  weaknesses." 

"  But  other  people  " — began  Maisie. 

"You  musn't  mind  what  other  people  do.  If 
their  souls  were  your  soul,  it  would  be  different. 
You  stand  and  fall  by  your  own  work,  remem- 
ber, and  it's  waste  of  time  to  think  of  any  one 
else  in  this  battle." 

Dick  paused,  and  the  longing  that  had  been  so 
resolutely  put  away  came  back  into  his  eyes.  He 
looked  at  Maisie,  and  the  look  asked  as  plainly  as 
words,  Was  it  not  time  to  leave  all  this  barren 
wilderness  of  canvas  and  counsel  and  join  hands 
with  Life  and  Love  ? 

Maisie  assented  to  the  new  programme  of 
schooling  so  adorably  that  Dick  could  hardly  re- 
strain himself  from  picking  her  up  then  and  there 
and  carrying  her  off  to  the  nearest  registrar's  of- 
fice. It  was  the  implicit  obedience  to  the  spoken 
word  and  the  blank  indifference  to  the  unspoken 
desire  that  baffled  and  buffeted  his  soul.   He  held 


loo  The  Light  that  Failed 

authority  in  that  house, — authority  limited,  in- 
deed, to  one-half  of  one  afternoon  in  seven,  but 
very  real  while  it  lasted.  Maisie  had  learned  to 
appeal  to  him  on  many  subjects,  from  the  proper 
packing  of  pictures  to  the  condition  of  a  smoky 
chimney.  The  red-haired  girl  never  consulted 
him  about  anything.  On  the  other  hand,  she 
accepted  his  appearances  without  protest,  and 
watched  him  always.  He  discovered  that  the 
meals  of  the  establishment  were  irregular  and 
fragmentary.  They  depended  chiefly  on  tea, 
pickles,  and  biscuit,  as  he  had  suspected  from 
the  beginning.  The  girls  were  supposed  to 
market  week  and  week  about,  but  they  lived, 
with  the  help  of  a  charwoman,  as  casually  as  the 
young  ravens.  Maisie  spent  most  of  her  income 
on  models,  and  the  other  girl  reveled  in  appara- 
tus as  refined  as  her  work  was  rough.  Armed 
with  knowledge  dear-bought  from  the  Docks, 
Dick  warned  Maisie  that  the  end  of  semi-starva- 
tion meant  the  crippling  of  power  to  work, 
which  was  considerably  worse  than  death. 
Maisie  took  the  warning,  and  gave  more  thought 
to  what  she  ate  and  drank.  When  his  trouble 
returned  upon  him,  as  it  generally  did  in  the  long 
winter  twilights,  the  remembrance  of  that  little 
act  of  domestic  authority  and  his  coercion  with  a 
hearth-brush  of  the  smoky  drawing-room  chim 
ney  stung  Dick  like  a  whip-lash. 


The  Light  that  Failed  101 

He  conceived  that  this  memory  would  be  the 
extreme  of  his  sufferings,  till  one  Sunday,  the 
red-haired  girl  announced  that  she  would  make 
a  study  of  Dick's  head,  and  that  he  would  be 
good  enough  to  sit  still,  and — quite  as  an  after- 
thought— look  at  Maisie.  He  sat,  because  he 
could  not  well  refuse,  and  for  the  space  of  half 
an  hour  he  reflected  on  all  the  people  in  the  past 
whom  he  had  laid  open  for  the  purposes  of  his 
own  craft.  He  remembered  Binat  most  dis- 
tinctly,— that  Binat  who  had  once  been  an  artist 
and  talked  about  degradation. 

It  was  the  merest  monochrome  roughing  in  of 
a  head,  but  it  presented  the  dumb  waiting,  the 
longing,  and,  above  all,  the  hopeless  enslave- 
ment of  the  man,  in  a  spirit  of  bitter  mockery. 

"I'll  buy  it,"  said  Dick,  promptly,  "at  your 
own  price." 

"  My  price  is  too  high,  but  I  dare  say  you'll  be 
as  grateful  if" —  The  wet  sketch  fluttered  from 
the  girl's  hand  and  fell  into  the  ashes  of  the 
studio  stove.  When  she  picked  it  up  it  was 
hopelessly  smudged. 

"Oh,  it's  all  spoiled!"  said  Maisie.  "And  I 
never  saw  it.    Was  it  like  ?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Dick,  under  his  breath  to  the 
red-haired  girl,  and  he  removed  himself  swiftly. 

"How  that  man  hates  me!"  said  the  girl. 
"  And  how  he  loves  you,  Maisie!  " 


102  The  Light  that  Failed 

"What  nonsense!  I  know  Dick's  very  fond 
of  me,  but  he  has  his  work  to  do,  and  I  have 
mine." 

"Yes,  he  is  fond  of  you,  and  I  think  he  knows 
there  is  something  in  impressionism,  after  all. 
Maisie,  can't  you  see?" 

"See?    See  what?" 

"Nothing;  only,  I  know  that  if  I  could  get  any 
man  to  look  at  me  as  that  man  looks  at  you,  I'd 
— I  don't  know  what  I'd  do.  But  he  hates  me. 
Oh,  how  he  hates  me!  " 

She  was  not  altogether  correct.  Dick's  hatred 
was  tempered  with  gratitude  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  he  forgot  the  girl  entirely.  Only  the 
sense  of  shame  remained,  and  he  was  nursing  it 
across  the  Park  in  the  fog.  "There'll  be  an  ex- 
plosion one  of  these  days,"  he  said,  wrathfully. 
"But  it  isn't  Maisie's  fault;  she's  right,  quite 
right,  as  far  as  she  knows,  and  I  can't  blame  her. 
This  business  has  been  going  on  for  three  months 
nearly.  Three  months! — and  it  cost  me  ten 
years'  knocking  about  to  get  at  the  notion,  the 
merest  raw  notion,  of  my  work.  That's  true; 
but  then  I  didn't  have  pins,  drawing-pins  and 
palette-knives,  stuck  into  me  every  Sunday.  Oh, 
my  little  darling,  if  ever  I  break  you,  somebody 
will  have  a  very  bad  time  of  it.  No,  she  won't. 
I'd  be  as  big  a  fool  about  her  as  I  am  now.  I'll 
poison  that  red-haired  girl  on  my  wedding-day, 


The  Light  that  Failed  103 

— she's  unwholesome, — and  now  I'll  pass  on 
these  present  bad  times  to  Torp." 

Torpenhow  had  been  moved  to  lecture  Dick 
more  than  once  lately  on  the  sin  of  levity,  and 
Dick  had  listened  and  replied  not  a  word.  In  the 
weeks  between  the  first  few  Sundays  of  his  dis- 
cipline he  had  flung  himself  savagely  into  his 
work,  resolved  that  Maisie  should  at  least  know 
the  full  stretch  of  his  powers.  Then  he  had 
taught  Maisie  that  she  must  not  pay  the  least  at- 
tention to  any  work  outside  her  own,  and  Maisie 
had  obeyed  him  all  too  well.  She  took  his  coun- 
sels, but  was  not  interested  in  his  pictures. 

"  Your  things  smell  of  tobacco  and  blood,"  she 
said  once.  "  Can't  you  do  anything  except  sol- 
diers?" 

"  I  could  do  a  head  of  you  that  would  startle 
you,"  thought  Dick, — this  was  before  the  red- 
haired  girl  had  brought  him  under  the  guillotine, 
— but  he  only  said,  "I  am  very  sorry,"  and  har- 
rowed Torpenhow's  soul  that  evening  with 
blasphemies  against  Art.  Later,  insensibly  and 
to  a  large  extent  against  his  own  will,  he  ceased 
to  interest  himself  in  his  own  work.  For  Maisie's 
sake,  and  to  soothe  the  self-respect  that  it  seemed 
to  him  he  lost  each  Sunday  he  would  not  con- 
sciously turn  out  bad  stuff,  but,  since  Maisie  did 
not  care  even  for  his  best,  it  were  better  not  to 
do  anything  at  all  save  wait  and  mark  time  be- 


104  The  Light  that  Failed 

tween  Sunday  and  Sunday.  Torpenhow  was 
disgusted  as  the  weeks  went  by  fruitless,  and 
then  attacked  him  one  Sunday  evening  when 
Dick  felt  utterly  exhausted  after  three  hours'  bit- 
ing self-restraint  in  Maisie's  presence.  There 
was  Language,  and  Torpenhow  withdrew  to 
consult  the  Nilghai,  who  had  come  in  to  talk 
continental  politics. 

"Bone-idle,  is  he?  Careless,  and  touched  in 
the  temper?"  said  the  Nilghai.  "It  isn't  worth 
worrying  over.  Dick  is  probably  playing  the 
fool  with  a  woman." 

"Isn't  that  bad  enough ?" 

"No.  She  may  throw  him  out  of  gear  and 
knock  his  work  to  pieces  for  a  while.  She  may 
even  turn  up  here  some  day  and  make  a  scene  on 
the  staircase:  one  never  knows.  But  until  Dick 
speaks  of  his  own  accord  you  had  better  not  touch 
him.     He  is  no  easy-tempered  man  to  handle." 

"No;  I  wish  he  were.  He  is  such  an  aggress- 
ive, cocksure,  you-be-damned  feilow." 

"  He'll  get  that  knocked  out  of  him  in  time. 
He  must  learn  that  he  can't  storm  up  and  down 
the  world  with  a  box  of  moist  tubes  and  a  slick 
brush.    You're  fond  of  him  ?  " 

"  I'd  take  any  punishment  that's  in  store  for 
him  if  1  could ;  but  the  worst  of  it  is,  no  man  can 
save  his  brother." 

"No,  and  the  worser  of  it  is,  there  is  no  dis- 


The  Light  that  Failed  105 

charge  in  this  war.  Dick  must  learn  his  lesson 
like  the  rest  of  us.  Talking  of  war,  there'll  be 
trouble  in  the  Balkans  in  the  spring." 

"That  trouble  is  long  coming.  I  wonder  if 
we  could  drag  Dick  out  there  when  it  comes 
off?" 

Dick  entered  the  room  soon  afterward,  and  the 
question  was  put  to  him.  "Not  good  enough," 
he  said,  shortly.     "I'm  too  comfy  where  1  am." 

"Surely  you  aren't  taking  all  the  stuff  in  the 
papers  seriously?"  said  the  Nilghai.  "Your 
vogue  will  be  ended  in  less  than  six  months, — 
the  public  will  know  your  touch  and  go  on  to 
something  new, — and  where  will  you  be  then?" 

"  Here,  in  England." 

"  When  you  might  be  doing  decent  work  among 
us  out  there?  Nonsense!  I  shall  go,  the  Keneu 
will  be  there,  Torp  will  be  there,  Cassavetti  will 
be  there,  and  the  whole  lot  of  us  will  be  there, 
and  we  shall  have  as  much  as  ever  we  can  do, 
with  unlimited  fighting  and  the  chance  for  you 
of  seeing  things  that  would  make  the  reputation 
of  three  Verestchagins." 

"  Urn!  "  said  Dick,  pulling  at  his  pipe. 

"  You  prefer  to  stay  here  and  imagine  that  all 
the  world  is  gaping  at  your  pictures  ?  Just  think 
how  full  an  average  man's  life  is  of  his  own  pur- 
suits and  pleasures.  When  twenty  thousand  of 
him  find  time  to  look  up  between  mouthfuls  and 


106  The  Light  that  Failed 

grunt  something  about  something  they  aren't  the 
least  interested  in,  the  net  result  is  called  fame, 
reputation,  or  notoriety,  according  to  the  taste 
and  fancy  of  the  speller  my  lord." 

"I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do.  Give  me 
credit  for  a  little  gumption." 

"  Be  hanged  if  I  do!  " 

"Be  hanged,  then;  you  probably  will  be, — for 
a  spy,  by  excited  Turks.  Heigh-ho!  I'm  weary, 
dead  weary,  and  virtue  has  gone  out  of  me." 
Dick  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  was  fast  asleep 
in  a  minute. 

"That's  a  bad  sign,"  said  the  Nilghai,  in  an 
undertone. 

Torpenhow  picked  the  pipe  from  the  waistcoat 
where  it  was  beginning  to  burn,  and  put  a  pillow 
behind  the  head.  "We  can't  help;  we  can't 
help,"  he  said.  "  It's  a  good  ugly  sort  of  old  co- 
coanut,  and  I'm  fond  of  it.  There's  the  scar  of 
the  wipe  he  got  when  he  was  cut  over  in  the 
square." 

"  Shouldn't  wonder  if  that  has  made  him  a  trifle 
mad." 

"  I  should.   He's  a  most  business-like  madman." 

Then  Dick  began  to  snore  furiously. 

"Oh,  here,  no  affection  can  stand  this  sort  of 
thing.  Wake  up,  Dick,  and  go  and  sleep  some- 
where else,  if  you  intend  to  make  a  noise  about 
it" 


The  Light  that  Failed  107 

"When  a  cat  has  been  out  on  the  tiles  all 
night,"  said  the  Nilghai  in  his  beard,  "I  notice 
that  she  usually  sleeps  all  day.  This  is  natural 
history." 

Dick  staggered  away  rubbing  his  eyes  and 
yawning.  In  the  night-watches  he  was  overtaken 
with  an  idea,  so  simple  and  so  luminous  that  he 
wondered  he  had  never  conceived  it  before.  It 
was  full  of  craft.  He  would  seek  Maisie  on  a 
week-day, — would  suggest  an  excursion,  and 
would  take  her  by  train  to  Fort  Keeling,  over  the 
very  ground  that  they  two  had  trodden  together 
ten  years  ago. 

"As  a  general  rule,"  he  explained  to  his  chin- 
lathered  reflection  in  the  morning,  "it  isn't  safe 
to  cross  an  old  trail  twice.  Things  remind  one 
of  things,  and  a  cold  wind  gets  up,  and  you  feel 
sad;  but  this  is  an  exception  to  every  rule  that 
ever  was.     I'll  go  to  Maisie  at  once." 

Fortunately,  the  red-haired  girl  was  out  shop- 
ping when  he  arrived,  and  Maisie  in  a  paint-spat- 
tered blouse  was  warring  with  her  canvas.  She 
was  not  pleased  to  see  him ;  for  week-day  visits 
were  a  stretch  of  the  bond ;  and  it  needed  all  his 
courage  to  explain  his  errand. 

"I  know  you've  been  working  too  hard,"  he 
concluded,  with  an  air  of  authority.  "  If  you  do 
that,  you'll  break  down.  You  had  much  better 
come." 


lo6  •  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  Where  ?  "  said  Maisie,  wearily.  She  had  been 
standing  before  her  easel  too  long,  and  was  very 
tired. 

"  Anywhere  you  please.  We'll  take  a  train  to- 
morrow and  see  where  it  stops.  We'll  have 
lunch  somewhere,  and  I'll  bring  you  back  in  the 
evening." 

"  If  there's  a  good  working  light  to-morrow  I 
lose  a  day."  Maisie  balanced  the  heavy  white 
chestnut  palette  irresolutely. 

Dick  bit  back  an  oath  that  was  hurrying  to  his 
lips.  He  had  not  yet  learned  patience  with  the 
maiden  to  whom  her  work  was  all  in  all. 

"You'll  lose  ever- so  many  more,  dear,  if  you 
use  every  hour  of  working  light.  Overwork's 
only  murderous  idleness.  Don't  be  unreasonable. 
I'll  call  for  you  to-morrow  after  breakfast  early." 

"  But  surely  you  are  going  to  ask  " — 

"No,  I  am  not.  I  want  you  and  nobody  else. 
Besides,  she  hates  me  as  much  as  1  hate  her.  She 
won't  care  to  come.  To-morrow,  then;  and 
pray  that  we  get  sunshine." 

Dick  went  away  delighted,  and  by  consequence 
did  no  work  whatever.  He  strangled  a  wild  de- 
sire to  order  a  special  train,  but  bought  a  great 
grey  kangaroo  cloak  lined  with  glossy  black 
marten,  and  then  retired  into  himself  to  consider 
things. 

"  I'm  going  out  for  the  day  to-morrow  with 


The  Light  that  Failed  109 

Dick,"  said  Maisie  to  the  red-haired  girl  when  the 
latter  returned,  tired,  from  marketing  in  the  Edg- 
ware  Road. 

11  He  deserves  it.  I  shall  have  the  studio  floor 
thoroughly  scrubbed  while  you're  away.  It's 
very  dirty." 

Maisie  had  enjoyed  no  sort  of  holiday  for 
months,  and  looked  forward  to  the  little  excite- 
ment, but  not  without  misgivings. 

"There's  nobody  nicer  than  Dick  when  he 
talks  sensibly,"  she  thought,  "but  I'm  sure  he'll 
be  silly  and  worry  me,  and  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell 
him  anything  he'd  like  to  hear.  If  he'd  only  be 
sensible  I  should  like  him  so  much  better." 

Dick's  eyes  were  full  of  joy  when  he  made  his 
appearance  next  morning  and  saw  Maisie,  grey- 
ulstered  and  black-velvet-hatted,  standing  in  the 
hallway.  Palaces  of  marble,  and  not  sordid  imi- 
tations of  grained  wood,  were  surely  the  fittest 
background  for  such  a  divinity.  The  red-haired 
girl  drew  her  into  the  studio  for  a  moment  and 
kissed  her  hurriedly.  Maisie's  eyebrows  climbed 
to  the  top  of  her  forehead;  she  was  altogether 
unused  to  these  demonstrations.  "Mind  my 
hat,"  she  said,  hurrying  away,  and  ran  down  the 
steps  to  Dick  waiting  by  the  hansom. 

"  Are  you  quite  warm  enough  ?  Are  you  sure 
you  wouldn't  like  some  more  breakfast?  Put 
this  cloak  over  your  knees." 


no  The  Light  that  Failed 

"I'm  quite  comfy,  thanks.  Where  are  we 
going,  Dick?  Oh,  do  stop  singing  like  that. 
People  will  think  we're  mad." 

"Let  'em  think, — if  the  exertion  doesn't  kill 
them.  They  don't  know  who  we  are,  and  I'm 
sure  I  don't  care  who  they  are.  My  faith,  Maisie, 
you're  looking  lovely! " 

Maisie  stared  directly  in  front  of  her  and  did 
not  reply.  The  wind  of  a  keen  clear  winter 
morning  had  put  color  into  her  cheeks.  Over- 
head, the  creamy-yellow  smoke-clouds  were 
thinning  away  one  by  one  against  a  pale-blue 
sky,  and  the  improvident  sparrows  broke  off 
from  water-spout  committees  and  cab-rank  cabals 
to  clamor  of  the  coming  of  spring. 

"  It  will  be  lovely  weather  in  the  country,"  said 
Dick. 

"  But  where  are  we  going?" 

"  Wait  and  see." 

They  stopped  at  Victoria,  and  Dick  sought 
tickets.  For  less  than  half  the  fraction  of  an  in- 
stant it  occurred  to  Maisie,  comfortably  settled  by 
the  waiting-room  fire,  that  it  was  much  more 
pleasant  to  send  a  man  to  the  booking-office 
than  to  elbow  one's  own  way  through  the  crowd. 
Dick  put  her  into  a  Pullman, — solely  on  account 
of  the  warmth  there;  and  she  regarded  the 
extravagance  with  grave  scandalized  eyes  as  the 
train  moved  out  into  the  country. 


The  Light  that  Failed  III 

'  "I  wish  I  knew  where  we  are  going,"  she 
repeated  for  the  twentieth  time.  The  name  of  a 
well-remembered  station  flashed  by,  toward  the 
end  of  the  run,  and  Maisie  was  enlightened. 

"Oh,  Dick,  you  villain!" 

"Well,  I  thought  you  might  like  to  see  the 
place  again.  You  haven't  been  here  since  old 
times,  have  you  ?" 

"No.  I  never  cared  to  see  Mrs.  Jennett  again; 
and  she  was  all  that  was  ever  there." 

"Not  quite.  Look  out  a  minute.  There's  the 
windmill  above  the  potato-fields;  they  haven't 
built  villas  there  yet;  d'you  remember  when  I 
shut  you  up  in  it?" 

"  Yes.  How  she  beat  you  for  it!  I  never  told 
it  was  you." 

"She  guessed.  I  jammed  a  stick  under  the 
door  and  told  you  that  I  was  burying  Amomma 
alive  in  the  potatoes,  and  you  believed  me.  You 
had  a  trusting  nature  in  those  days." 

They  laughed  and  leaned  to  look  out,  identi- 
fying ancient  landmarks  with  many  reminiscen- 
ces. Dick  fixed  his  weather  eye  on  the  curve  of 
Maisie's  cheek,  very  near  his  own,  and  watched 
the  blood  rise  under  the  clear  skin.  He  con- 
gratulated himself  upon  his  cunning,  and  looked 
that  the  evening  would  bring  him  a  great  re- 
ward. 

When   the   train  stopped  they  went  out  to 


112  The  Light  that  Failed 

look  at  an  old  town  with  new  eyes.  First,  but 
from  a  distance,  they  regarded  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Jennett. 

"Suppose  she  should  come  out  now,  what 
would  you  do  ?  "  said  Dick,  with  mock  terror. 

"  I  should  make  a  face." 

"Show,  then,"  said  Dick,  dropping  into  the 
speech  of  childhood. 

Maisie  made  that  face  in  the  direction  of  the 
mean  little  villa,  and  Dick  laughed  aloud. 

"'This  is  disgraceful,'"  said  Maisie,  mimick- 
ing Mrs.  Jennett's  tone.  "  '  Maisie,  you  run  in  at 
once,  and  learn  the  collect,  gospel,  and  epistle  for 
•the  next  three  Sundays.  After  all  I've  taught 
you,  too,  and  three  helps  every  Sunday  at  din- 
ner! Dick's  always  leading  you  into  mischief. 
If  you  aren't  a  gentleman,  Dick,  you  might  at 
least'"— 

The  sentence  ended  abruptly.  Maisie  remem- 
bered when  it  had  last  been  used. 

"'Try  to  behave  like  one,'"  said  Dick, 
Dromptly.  "Quite  right.  Now  we'll  get  some 
lunch  and  go  on  to  Fort  Keeling, — unless  you'd 
rather  drive  there  ?  " 

"We  must  walk,  out  of  respect  to  the  place. 
How  little  changed  it  all  is! " 

They  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  sea  through 
unaltered  streets,  and  the  influence  of  old  things 
lay  upon  them.     Presently  they  passed  a  con- 


The  Light  that  Failed  113 

fectioner's  shop  much  considered  in  the  days 
when  their  joint  pocket-money  amounted  to  a 
shilling  a  week. 

"Dick,  have  you  any  pennies?"  said  Maisie, 
half  to  herself. 

"Only  three;  and  if  you  think  you're  going 
to  have  two  of  'em  to  buy  peppermints  with, 
you're  wrong.  She  says  peppermints  aren't 
ladylike." 

Again  they  laughed,  and  again  the  color  came 
into  Maisie's  cheeks  as  the  blood  boiled  through 
Dick's  heart.  After  a  large  lunch  they  went 
down  to  the  beach  and  to  Fort  Keeling  across 
the  waste,  wind-bitten  land  that  no  builder  had 
thought  it  worth  his  while  to  defile.  The  winter 
breeze  came  in  from  the  sea  and  sang  about  their 
ears. 

"  Maisie,"  said  Dick,  "your  nose  is  getting  a 
crude  Prussian  blue  at  the  tip.  I'll  race  you  as 
far  as  you  please  for  as  much  as  you  please." 

She  looked  round  cautiously,  and  with  a  laugh 
set  off,  swiftly  as  the  ulster  allowed,  till  she  was 
out  of  breath. 

"We  used  to  run  miles,"  she  panted.  "It's 
absurd  that  we  can't  run  now." 

"  Old  age,  dear.  This  it  is  to  get  fat  and  sleek 
in  town.  When  I  wished  to  pull  your  hair  you 
generally  ran  for  three  miles,  shrieking  at  the  top 
of  your  voice.    I  ought  to  know,  because  those 


114  The  Light  that  Failed 

shrieks  were  meant  to  call  up  Mrs.  Jennett  with  a 
cane  and  " — 

"  Dick,  I  never  got  you  a  beating  on  purpose  in 
my  life." 

"  No,  of  course  you  never  did.  Good  heavens  1 
look  at  the  sea." 

"Why,  it's  the  same  as  ever! "  said  Maisie. 

Torpenhow  had  gathered  from  Mr.  Beeton 
that  Dick,  properly  dressed  and  shaved,  had  left 
the  house  at  half-past  eight  in  the  morning  with 
a  traveling-rug  over  his  arm.  The  Nilghai  rolled 
in  at  midday  for  chess  and  polite  conversation. 

"It's  worse  than  anything  I  imagined,"  said 
Torpenhow. 

"Oh,  the  everlasting  Dick,  I  suppose!  You 
fuss  over  him  like  a  hen  with  one  chick.  Let 
him  run  riot  if  he  thinks  it'll  amuse  him.  You 
can  whip  a  young  pup  off  feather,  but  you  can't 
whip  a  young  man." 

"  It  isn't  a  woman.  It's  one  woman;  and  it's 
a  girl." 

"Where's  your  proof?" 

"He  got  up  and  went  out  at  eight  this  morn- 
ing,— got  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  by  Jove! 
a  thing  he  never  does  except  when  he's  on 
service.  Even  then,  remember,  we  had  to  kick 
him  out  of  his  blankets  before  the  fight  began  at 
El-Maghrib.    It's  disgusting." 


The  Light  that  Failed  115 

"  It  looks  odd;  but  maybe  he's  decided  to  buy 
a  horse  at  last.  He  might  get  up  for  that,  might- 
n't he?" 

11  Buy  a  blazing  wheelbarrow!  He'd  have  told 
us  if  there  was  a  horse  in  the  wind.     It's  a  girl." 

"  Don't  be  certain.  Perhaps  it's  only  a  married 
woman." 

"Dick  has  some  sense  of  humor,  if  you 
haven't.  Who  gets  up  in  the  grey  dawn  to  call 
on  another  man's  wife  ?    It's  a  girl." 

"  Let  it  be  a  girl,  then.  She  may  teach  him 
that  there's  somebody  else  in  the  world  besides 
himself." 

"She'll  spoil  his  hand.  She'll  waste  his  time, 
and  she'll  marry  him,  and  ruin  his  work  forever. 
He'll  be  a  respectable  married  man  before  we  can 
stop  him,  and — he'll  never  go  on  the  long  trail 
again." 

"All  quite  possible,  but  the  earth  won't  spin 
the  other  way  when  it  happens.  .  .  .  Ho! 
ho!  I'd  give  something  to  see  Dick  'go  wooing 
with  the  boys.'  Don't  worry  about  it.  These 
things  be  with  Allah,  and  we  can  only  look  on. 
Get  the  chessmen." 

The  red-haired  girl  was  lying  down  in  her  own 
room,  staring  at  the  ceiling.  The  footsteps  of 
people  on  the  pavement  sounded,  as  they  grew 
indistinct  in  the  distance,  like  a  many-time>-re- 


n6  The  Light  that  Failed 

peated  kiss  that  was  all  one  long  kiss.  Her 
hands  were  by  her  side,  and  they  opened  and 
shut  savagely  from  time  to  time. 

The  charwoman  in  charge  of  the  scrubbing  of 
the  studio  knocked  at  her  door:  "  Beg  y'  pardon, 
miss,  but  in  cleanin'  of  a  floor  there's  two,  not 
to  say  three,  kind  of  soap,  which  is  yaller,  an' 
mottled,  an'  disinfectink.  Now,  jist  before  1  took 
my  pail  into  the  passage  I  thought  it  would  be 
pre'aps  jest  as  well  if  I  was  to  come  up  'ere  an' 
ask  you  what  sort  of  soap  you  was  wishful  that 
I  should  use  on  them  boards.  The  yaller  soap, 
miss  " — 

There  was  nothing  in  the  speech  to  have  caused 
the  paroxysm  of  fury  that  drove  the  red-haired 
girl  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  almost  shout- 
ing— 

"  Do  you  suppose  /  care  what  you  use  ?  Any 
kind  will  do! — any  kind! " 

The  woman  fled,  and  the  red-haired  girl 
looked  at  her  own  reflection  in  the  glass  for  an 
instant  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  It 
was  as  though  she  had  shouted  some  shameless 
secret  aloud. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Roses  red  and  roses  white 
Plucked  I  for  my  love's  delight. 
She  would  none  of  all  my  posies, 
Bade  me  gather  her  blue  roses. 

Half  the  world  I  wandered  through, 
Seeking  where  such  flowers  grew; 
Half  the  world  unto  my  quest 
Answered  but  with  laugh  and  jest 

It  may  be  beyond  the  grave 
She  shall  find  what  she  would  have. 
Oh,  'twas  but  an  idle  quest, — 
Roses  white  and  red  are  best ! 

— Blue  Roses. 

Indeed  the  sea  had  not  changed.  Its  waters 
were  low  on  the  mud-banks,  and  the  Marazion 
bell-buoy  clanked  and  swung  in  the  tide-way. 
On  the  white  beach-sand  dried  stumps  of  sea- 
poppy  shivered  and  chatted  together. 

"I  don't  see  the  old  breakwater,"  said  Maisie, 
under  her  breath. 

"  Let's  be  thankful  that  we  have  as  much  as 
we  have.  I  don't  believe  they've  mounted  a 
single  new  gun  on  the  fort  since  we  were  here 
Come  and  look." 

117  _ 


1 1 8  The  Light  that  Failed 

They  came  to  the  glacis  of  Fort  Keeling,  and 
sat  down  in  a  nook  sheltered  from  the  wind 
under  the  tarred  throat  of  a  forty-pounder 
cannon. 

"Now,  if  Amomma  were  only  here!"  said 
Maisie. 

For  a  long  time  both  were  silent.  Then  Dick 
took  Maisie's  hand  and  called  her  by  her  name. 

She  shook  her  head  and  looked  out  to  sea. 

"Maisie,  darling,  doesn't  it  make  any  differ- 
ence?" 

" No! "  between  clenched  teeth.  '■' I'd — I'd  tell 
you  if  it  did;  but  it  doesn't.  Oh,  Dick,  please  be 
sensible." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  it  ever  will  ?" 

"No,  I'm  sure  it  won't" 

"Why?" 

Maisie  rested  her  chin  on  her  hand,  and,  still 
regarding  the  sea,  spoke  hurriedly  — 

"I  know  what  you  want  perfectly  well,  but  1 
can't  give  it  you,  Dick.  It  isn't  my  fault;  indeed 
it  isn't.  If  I  felt  that  I  could  care  for  any  one  — 
But  I  don't  feel  that  I  care.  I  simply  don't  under- 
stand what  the  feeling  means." 

"Is  that  true,  dear?" 

"You've  been  very  good  to  me,  Dickie;  and 
the  only  way  I  can  pay  you  back  is  by  speaking 
the  truth.  I  daren't  tell  a  fib.  I  despise  myself 
quite  enough  as  it  is." 


The  Light  that  Failed  1 19 

"What  in  the  world  for?" 

"  Because — because  I  take  everything  that  you 
give  me  and  I  give  you  nothing  in  return.  It's 
mean  and  selfish  of  me,  and  whenever  1  think  of 
it  it  worries  me." 

"Understand  once  for  all,  then,  that  I  can 
manage  my  own  affairs,  and  if  I  choose  to  do 
anything  you  aren't  to  blame.  You  haven't  a 
single  thing  to  reproach  yourself  with,  darling." 

"Yes,  I  have,  and  talking  only  makes  it 
worse." 

"Then  don't  talk  about  it." 

"How  can  I  help  myself?  If  you  find  me 
alone  for  a  minute  you  are  always  talking  about 
it;  and  when  you  aren't  you  look  it.  You  don't 
know  how  I  despise  myself  sometimes." 

"Great  goodness!"  said  Dick,  nearly  jumping 
to  his  feet.  "Speak  the  truth  now,  Maisie,  if 
you  never  speak  it  again!  Do  I — does  this 
worrying  bore  you  ?  " 

"No.    It  does  not." 

"  You'd  tell  me  if  it  did?" 

"I  should  let  you  know,  I  think." 

"Thank  you.  The  other  thing  is  fatal.  But 
you  must  learn  to  forgive  a  man  when  he's  in 
love.  He's  always  a  nuisance.  You  must  have 
known  that  ?  " 

Maisie  did  not  consider  the  last  question  worth 
answering,  and  Dick  was  forced  to  repeat  it. 


120  The  Light  that  Failed 

"There  were  other  men,  of  course.  They  al- 
ways worried  just  when  I  was  in  the  middle  of 
my  work,  and  wanted  me  to  listen  to  them." 

'"Did  you  listen?" 

"  At  first;  and  they  couldn't  understand  why  I 
didn't  care.  And  they  used  to  praise  my  pic- 
tures; and  I  thought  they  meant  it.  I  used  to  be 
proud  of  the  praise,  and  tell  Kami,  and — I  shall 
never  forget — once  Kami  laughed  at  me." 

"You  don't  like  being  laughed  at,  Maisie,  do 
you?" 

"I  hate  it.  I  never  laugh  at  other  people 
unless — unless  they  do  bad  work.  Dick,  tell  me 
honestly  what  you  think  of  my  pictures  gener- 
ally,— of  everything  of  mine  that  you've  seen." 

"'Honest,  honest,  and  honest  over!'"  quoted 
Dick  from  a  catchword  of  long  ago.  "  Tell  me 
what  Kami  always  says." 

Maisie  hesitated.  "  He — he  says  that  there  is 
feeling  in  them." 

"  How  dare  you  tell  me  a  fib  like  that  ?  Re- 
member, I  was  under  Kami  for  two  years.  I 
know  exactly  what  he  says." 

"  It  isn't  a  fib." 

"It's  worse;  it's  a  half  truth.  Kami  says, 
vvhen  he  puts  his  head  on  one  side, — so, — 7/  y 
i  du  sentiment,  mais  il  n'y  a  pas  de  parti  pris.' " 
He  rolled  the  r  threateningly,  as  Kami  used  to 
io. 


The  Light  that  Failed  \2\ 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  he  says;  and  I'm  beginning 
to  think  that  he  is  right." 

"Certainly  he  is."  Dick  admitted  that  two 
people  in  the  world  could  do  and  say  no  wrong. 
Kami  was  the  man. 

"And  now  you  say  the  same  thing.  It's  so 
disheartening." 

"  I'm  sorry,  but  you  asked  me  to  speak  the  truth. 
Besides,  I  love  you  too  much  to  pretend  about 
your  work.  It's  strong,  it's  patient  sometimes, 
— not  always, — and  sometimes  there's  power  in 
it,  but  there's  no  special  reason  why  it  should  be 
done  at  all.     At  least  that's  how  it  strikes  me." 

"There's  no  special  reason  why  anything  in 
the  world  should  ever  be  done.  You  know  that 
as  well  as  I  do.     I  only  want  success." 

"  You're  going  the  wrong  way  to  get  it,  then. 
Hasn't  Kami  ever  told  you  so  ?" 

"Don't  quote  Kami  to  me.  I  want  to  know 
what  you  think.    My  work's  bad,  to  begin  with." 

"  I  didn't  say  that,  and  I  don't  think  it." 

"It's  amateurish,  then." 

"That  it  most  certainly  is  not.  You're  a 
workwoman,  darling,  to  your  boot-heels,  and  I 
respect  you  for  that." 

"  You  don't  laugh  at  me  behind  my  back  ?" 

"  No,  dear.  You  see,  you  are  more  to  me  than 
any  one  else.  Put  this  cloak  thing  round  you,  or 
you'll  get  chilled." 


132  The  Light  that  Failed 

Maisie  wrapped  herself  in  the  soft  marten  skins, 
turning  the  grey  kangaroo  fur  to  the  outside. 

"This  is  delicious,"  she  said,  rubbing  her  chin 
thoughtfully  along  the  fur.  "  Well  ?  Why  am  I 
wrong  in  trying  to  get  a  little  success  ?  " 

"Just  because  you  try.  Don't  you  understand, 
darling  ?  Good  work  has  nothing  to  do  with — 
doesn't  belong  to — the  person  who  does  it.  It's 
put  into  him  or  her  from  outside." 

11  But  how  does  that  affect  "— 

"Wait  a  minute.  All  we  can  do  is  to  learn 
how  to  do  our  work,  to  be  masters  of  our  ma- 
terials instead  of  servants,  and  never  to  be  afraid 
of  anything." 

"I  understand  that." 

"Everything  else  comes  from  outside  our- 
selves. Very  good.  If  we  sit  down  quietly  to 
work  out  notions  that  are  sent  to  us,  we  may  or 
we  may  not  do  something  that  isn't  bad.  A 
great  deal  depends  on  being  master  of  the  bricks 
and  mortar  of  the  trade.  But  the  instant  we  be- 
gin to  think  about  success  and  the  effect  of  our 
work — to  play  with  one  eye  on  the  gallery — we 
lose  power  and  touch  and  everything  else.  At 
least  that's  how  I  have  found  it.  Instead  of  be- 
ing quiet  and  giving  every  power  you  possess 
to  your  work,  you're  fretting  over  something 
which  you  can  neither  help  nor  hinder  by  a 
minute.    See?" 


The  Light  that  Failed  123 

"It's  so  easy  for  you  to  talk  in  that  way. 
People  like  what  you  do.  Don't  you  ever  think 
about  the  gallery  ?  " 

"Much  too  often;  but  I'm  always  punished 
for  it  by  loss  of  power.  It's  as  simple  as  the 
Rule  of  Three.  If  we  make  light  of  our  work 
by  using  it  for  our  own  ends,  our  work  will 
make  light  of  us,  and,  as  we're  the  weaker,  we 
shall  suffer." 

"I  don't  treat  my  work  lightly.  You  know 
that  it's  everything  to  me." 

"Of  course;  but,  whether  you  realize  it  or  not, 
you  give  two  strokes  for  yourself  to  one  for  your 
work.  It  isn't  your  fault,  darling.  I  do  exactly 
the  same  thing,  and  know  that  I'm  doing  it. 
Most  of  the  French  schools,  and  all  the  schools 
here,  drive  the  students  to  work  for  their  own 
credit,  and  for  the  sake  of  their  pride.  I  was 
told  that  all  the  world  was  interested  in  my 
work,  and  everybody  at  Kami's  talked  turpentine, 
and  I  honestly  believed  that  the  world  needed  ele- 
vating and  influencing,  and  all  manner  of  imperti- 
nences, by  my  brushes.  By  Jove,  I  actually  be- 
lieved that!  When  my  little  head  was  bursting 
with  a  notion  that  I  couldn't  handle  because  I 
hadn't  sufficient  knowledge  of  my  craft,  I  used 
to  run  about  wondering  at  my  own  magnificence 
and  getting  ready  to  astonish  the  world." 

"  But  surely  one  can  do  that  sometimes  ?** 


124  The  Light  that  Failed 

"Very  seldom  with  malice  aforethought,  dar- 
ling. And  when  it's  done  it's  such  a  tiny  thing, 
and  the  world's  so  big,  and  all  but  a  millionth 
part  of  it  doesn't  care.  Maisie,  come  with  me 
and  I'll  show  you  something  of  the  size  of  the 
world.  One  can  no  more  avoid  working  than 
eating, — that  goes  on  by  itself, — but  try  to  see 
what  you  are  working  for.  I  know  such  little 
heavens  that  I  could  take  you  to, — islands  tucked 
away  under  the  Line.  You  sight  them  after 
weeks  of  crashing  through  water  as  black  as 
black  marble  because  it's  so  deep,  and  you  sit  in 
the  fore-chains  day  after  day  and  see  the  sun 
rise  almost  afraid  because  the  sea's  so  lonely." 

"  Who  is  afraid  ? — you,  or  the  sun  ?" 

"The  sun,  of  course.  And  there  are  noises 
under  the  sea,  and  sounds  overhead  in  a  clear 
sky.  Then  you  find  your  island  alive  with  hot, 
moist  orchids  that  make  mouths  at  you  and  can 
do  everything  except  talk.  There's  a  waterfall  in  it 
three  hundred  feet  high,  just  like  a  sliver  of  green 
jade  laced  with  silver;  and  millions  of  wild  bees 
live  up  in  the  rocks ;  and  you  can  hear  the  fat 
cocoanuts  falling  from  the  palms;  and  you  order 
an  ivory-white  servant  to  sling  you  a  long,  yel- 
low hammock  with  tassels  on  it  like  ripe  maize, 
and  you  put  up  your  feet  and  hear  the  bees  hum 
and  the  water  fall  till  you  go  to  sleep." 

"  Can  one  work  there  ?  " 


The  Light  that  Failed  125 

"  Certainly.  One  must  do  something  always. 
You  hang  your  canvas  up  in  a  palm-tree  and  let 
the  parrots  criticise.  When  they  scuffle  you 
heave  a  ripe  custard-apple  at  them,  and  it  bursts 
in  a  lather  of  cream.  There  are  hundreds  of 
places.     Come  and  see  them." 

"  I  don't  quite  like  that  place.  It  sounds  lazy. 
Tell  me  another." 

"What  do  you  think  of  a  big,  red,  dead  city 
built  of  red  sandstone,  with  raw  green  aloes 
growing  between  the  stones,  lying  out  neglected 
on  honey-colored  sands  ?  There  are  forty  dead 
kings  there,  Maisie,  each  in  a  gorgeous  tomb 
finer  than  all  the  others.  You  look  at  the  palaces 
and  streets  and  shops  and  tanks,  and  think  that 
men  must  live  there,  till  you  find  a  wee  grey 
squirrel  rubbing  its  nose  all  alone  in  the  market- 
place, and  a  jeweled  peacock  struts  out  of  a 
carved  doorway  and  spreads  its  tail  against  a 
marble  screen  as  fine  pierced  as  point-lace.  Then 
a  monkey — a  little  black  monkey — walks  through 
the  main  square  to  get  a  drink  from  a  tank  forty 
feet  deep.  He  slides  down  the  creepers  to  the 
water's  edge,  and  a  friend  holds  him  by  the  tail, 
in  case  he  should  fall  in." 

"Is  all  that  true?" 

"I  have  been  there  and  seen.  Then  evening 
comes,  and  the  lights  change  till  it's  just  as 
though  you  stood  in  the  heart  of  a  king-opaL 


ia6  The  Light  that  Failed 

A  little  before  sundown,  as  punctually  as  clock- 
work, a  big  bristly  wild  boar,  with  all  his  family 
following,  trots  through  the  city  gate,  churning 
the  foam  on  his  tusks.  You  climb  on  the  shoul- 
der of  a  blind  black  stone  god  and  watch  that 
pig  choose  himself  a  palace  for  the  night  and 
stump  in  wagging  his  tail.  Then  the  night-wind 
gets  up,  and  the  sands  move,  and  you  hear  the 
desert  outside  the  city  singing,  '  Now  I  lay  me 
down  to  sleep,'  and  everything  is  dark  till  the 
moon  rises.  Maisie  darling,  come  with  me  and 
see  what  the  world  is  really  like.  It's  very 
lovely,  and  it's  very  horrible, — but  I  won't  let 
you  see  anything  horrid, — and  it  doesn't  care 
your  life  or  mine  for  pictures  or  anything  else 
except  doing  its  own  work  and  making  love. 
Come,  and  I'll  show  you  how  to  brew  sangaree, 
and  sling  a  hammock,  and — oh,  thousands  of 
things,  and  you'll  see  for  yourself  what  color 
means,  and  we'll  find  out  together  what  love 
means,  and  then,  maybe,  we  shall  be  allowed  to 
do  some  good  work.    Come  away! " 

"Why?"  said  Maisie. 

"  How  can  you  do  anything  until  you  have 
seen  everything,  or  as  much  as  you  can  ?  And 
besides,  darling,  I  love  you.  Come  along  with 
me.  You  have  no  business  here;  you  don't  be- 
long to  this  place;  you're  half  a  gypsy, — your 
face  tells  that;  and  I— even  the  smell  of  open 


The  Light  that  Failed  127 

water  makes  me  restless.  Come  across  the  sea 
and  be  happy! " 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  the  gun,  looking  down  at  the  giri. 
The  very  short  winter  afternoon  had  worn  away, 
and,  before  they  knew,  the  winter  moon  was 
walking  the  untroubled  sea.  Long  ruled  lines  of 
silver  showed  where  a  ripple  of  the  rising  tide 
was  turning  over  the  mud-banks.  The  wind 
had  dropped,  and  in  the  intense  stillness  they 
could  hear  a  donkey  cropping  the  frosty  grass 
many  yards  away.  A  faint  beating  like  that  of  a 
muffled  drum,  came  out  of  the  moon-haze. 

"What's  that?"  said  Maisie,  quickly.  "It 
sounds  like  a  heart  beating.     Where  is  it  ?  " 

Dick  was  so  angry  at  this  sudden  wrench  to 
his  pleadings  that  he  could  not  trust  himself  to 
speak,  and  in  this  silence  caught  the  sound. 
Maisie  fro'm  her  seat  under  the  gun  watched  him 
with  a  certain  amount  of  fear.  She  wished  so 
much  that  he  would  be  sensible  and  cease  to 
worry  her  with  over-sea  emotion  that  she  both 
could  and  could  not  understand.  She  was  not 
prepared,  however,  for  the  change  in  his  face  as 
he  listened. 

"It's  a  steamer,"  he  said, — "a  twin-screw 
steamer,  by  the  beat.  I  can't  make  her  out,  but 
she  must  be  standing  very  close  in-shore.  Ah! " 
ts  the  red  of  a  rocket  streaked  the  haze,  "she's 


128  The  Light  that  Failed 

standing  in  to  signal  before  she  clears  the  Chan- 
nel." 

"Is  it  a  wreck?"  said  Maisie,  to  whom  these 
words  were  as  Greek. 

Dick's  eyes  were  turned  to  the  sea.  "  Wreck! 
What  nonsense!  She's  only  reporting  herself. 
Red  rocket  forward — there's  a  green  light  aft 
now,  and  two  red  rockets  from  the  bridge." 

**  What  does  that  mean  ?" 

"  It's  the  signal  of  the  Cross  Keys  Line  running 
to  Australia.  I  wonder  which  steamer  it  is." 
The  note  of  his  voice  had  changed;  he  seemed 
to  be  talking  to  himself,  and  Maisie  did  not  ap- 
prove of  it.  The  moonlight  broke  the  haze  for  a 
moment,  touching  the  black  sides  of  a  long 
steamer  working  down  Channel.  "Four  masts 
and  three  funnels — she's  in  deep  draught,  too. 
That  must  be  the  Bart along,  or  the  Bhutia.  No, 
the  Bhutia  has  a  clipper  bow.  It's  the  Barra- 
long,  to  Australia.  She'll  lift  the  Southern  Cross 
in  a  week, — lucky  old  tub! — oh,  lucky  old  tub!  " 

He  stared  intently,  and  moved  up  the  slope  of 
the  fort  to  get  a  better  view,  but  the  mist  on  the 
sea  thickened  again,  and  the  beating  of  the  screws 
grew  fainter.  Maisie  called  to  him  a  little  an- 
grily, and  he  returned,  still  keeping  his  eyes  to 
seaward.  "Have  you  ever  seen  the  Southern 
Cross  blazing  right  over  your  head  ?  "  he  asked. 
"It's  superb  1" 


The  Light  that  Failed  129 

"  No,"  she  said,  shortly,  "  and  I  don't  want  to. 
If  you  think  it's  so  lovely,  why  don't  you  go  and 
see  it  yourself?" 

She  raised  her  face  from  the  soft  blackness  of 
the  marten  skins  about  her  throat,  and  her  eyes 
shone  like  diamonds.  The  moonlight  on  the 
grey  kangaroo  fur  turned  it  to  frosted  silver  of 
the  coldest. 

"  By  Jove,  Maisie,  you  look  like  a  little  heathen 
idol  tucked  up  there."  The  eyes  showed  that 
they  did  not  appreciate  the  compliment.  "I'm 
sorry,"  he  continued.  "The  Southern  Cross 
isn't  worth  looking  at  unless  some  one  helps  you 
to  see.     That  steamer's  out  of  hearing." 

"Dick,"  she  said,  quietly,  "suppose  I  were 
to  come  to  you  now, — be  quiet  a  minute, — just 
as  I  am,  and  caring  for  you  just  as  much  as  I 
do." 

"Not  as  a  brother,  though?  You  said  you 
didn't— in  the  Park." 

"  I  never  had  a  brother.  Suppose  I  said,  '  Take 
me  to  those  places,  and  in  time,  perhaps,  I  might 
really  care  for  you,'  what  would  you  do  ?" 

".Send  you  straight  back  to  where  you  came 
from,  in  a  cab.  No,  I  wouldn't;  I'd  let  you 
walk.  But  you  couldn't  do  it,  dear.  And  1 
wouldn't  run  the  risk.  You're  worth  waiting  for 
till  you  can  come  without  reservation." 

"Do  you  honestly  believe  that?" 


130  The  Light  thai  Failed 

"  1  have  a  hazy  sort  of  idea  that  I  do.  Has  it 
never  struck  you  in  that  light  ?  " 

"Ye — es.     I  feel  so  wicked  about  it." 

"Wickeder  than  usual  ?" 

"  You  don't  know  all  I  think.  It's  almost  too 
awful  to  tell." 

"  Never  mind.  You  promised  to  tell  me  the 
truth— at  least." 

"  It's  so  ungrateful  of  me,  but — but,  though  I 
know  you  care  for  me,  and  I  like  to  have  you 
with  me,  I'd — I'd  even  sacrifice  you,  if  that  would 
bring  me  what  I  want." 

"  My  poor  little  darling!  I  know  that  state  of 
mind.    It  doesn't  lead  to  good  work." 

"You  aren't  angry?  Remember,  I  do  despise 
myself." 

"I'm  not  exactly  flattered, — I  had  guessed  as 
much  before, — but  I'm  not  angry.  I'm  sorry  for 
you.  Surely  you  ought  to  have  left  a  littleness 
like  that  behind  you,  years  ago." 

"You've  no  right  to  patronize  me!  I  only 
want  what  I  have  worked  for  so  long.  It  came 
to  you  without  any  trouble,  and — and  I  don't 
think  it's  fair." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  I'd  give  ten  years  of  my  life 
to  get  you  what  you  want.  But  I  can't  help  you; 
even  I  can't  help." 

A  murmur  of  dissent  from  Maisie.  He  went 
on  — 


The  Light  that  Failed  \}\ 

"  And  I  know  by  what  you  have  just  said  that 
you're  on  the  wrong  road  to  success.  It  isn't  got 
at  by  sacrificing  other  people, — I've  had  that 
much  knocked  into  me;  you  must  sacrifice  your- 
self, and  live  under  orders,  and  never  think  for 
yourself,  and  never  have  real  satisfaction  in  your 
work  except  just  at  the  beginning,  when  you're 
reaching  out  after  a  notion." 

"  How  can  you  believe  all  that  ?" 

"There's  no  question  of  belief  or  disbelief. 
That's  the  law,  and  you  take  it  or  refuse  it  as  you 
please.  I  try  to  obey,  but  I  can't,  and  then  my 
work  turns  bad  on  my  hands.  Under  any  cir- 
cumstances, remember,  four-fifths  of  everybody's 
work  must  be  bad.  But  the  remnant  is  worth 
the  trouble  for  its  own  sake." 

"Isn't  it  nice  to  get  credit  even  for  bad 
work  ?  " 

"It's  much  too  nice.  But —  May  I  tell  you 
something  ?  It  isn't  a  pretty  tale,  but  you're  so 
like  a  man  that  I  forget  when  I'm  talking  to 
you." 

"Tell  me." 

"  Once  when  I  was  out  in  the  Soudan  I  went 
over  some  ground  that  we  had  been  fighting  on 
for  three  days.  There  were  twelve  hundred 
dead;  and  we  hadn't  time  to  bury  them." 

"How  ghastly!" 

"I  had  been  at  work  on  a  big  double-sheet 


1^2  The  Light  that  Failed 

sketch,  and  I  was  wondering  what  people  would 
think  of  it  at  home.  The  sight  of  that  field  taught 
me  a  good  deal.  It  looked  just  like  a  bed  of  horrible 
toadstools  in  all  colors,  and — I'd  never  seen  men 
in  bulk  go  back  to  their  beginnings  before.  So  I 
began  to  understand  that  men  and  women  were 
only  material  to  work  with,  and  that  what  they 
said  or  did  was  of  no  consequence.  See? 
Strictly  speaking,  you  might  just  as  well  put 
your  ear  down  to  the  palette  to  catch  what  your 
colors  are  saying." 

"Dick,  that's  disgraceful-!" 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  said,  strictly  speaking. 
Unfortunately,  everybody  must  be  either  a  man 
or  a  woman." 

"I'm  glad  you  allow  that  much." 

"  In  your  case  I  don't.  You  aren't  a  woman. 
But  ordinary  people,  Maisie,  must  behave  and 
work  as  such.  That's  what  makes  me  so 
savage."  He  hurled  a  pebble  toward  the  sea  as 
he  spoke.  "  I  know  that  it  is  outside  my  busi- 
ness to  care  what  people  say ;  I  can  see  that  it 
spoils  my  output  if  I  listen  to  'em;  and  yet,  con- 
found it  all," — another  pebble  flew  seaward, — "  I 
can't  help  purring  when  I'm  rubbed  the  right 
way.  £ven  when  I  can  see  on  a  man's  forehead 
'Jiat  he  is  lying  his  way  through  a  clump  of  pretty 
speeches,  those  lies  make  me  happy  and  play  the 
mischief  with  my  hand." 


The  Light  that  Failed  133 

"  And  when  he  doesn't  say  pretty  things  ?" 

"Then,  belovedest," — Dick  grinned, — "I  forget 
that  I  am  the  steward  of  these  gifts,  and  I  want 
to  make  that  man  love  and  appreciate  my  work 
with  a  thick  stick.  It's  too  humiliating  alto- 
gether; but  I  suppose  even  if  one  were  an  angel 
and  painted  humans  altogether  from  outside,  one 
would  lose  in  touch  what  one  gained  in  grip." 

Maisie  laughed  at  the  idea  of  Dick  as  an 
angel. 

"But  you  seem  to  think,"  she  said,  "that 
everything  nice  spoils  your  hand." 

"  I  don't  think.  It's  the  law,— just  the  same  as 
it  was  at  Mrs.  Jennett's.  Everything  that  is  nice 
does  spoil  your  hand.  I'm  glad  you  see  so 
clearly." 

"  I  don't  like  the  view." 

" Nor  I.  But — have  got  orders:  what  can  do ? 
Are  you  strong  enough  to  face  it  alone  ?  " 

"I  suppose  I  must." 

"Let  me  help,  darling.  We  can  hold  each 
other  very  tight  and  try  to  walk  straight.  We 
shall  blunder  horribly,  but  it  will  be  better  than 
stumbling  apart.     Maisie,  can't  you  see  reason  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  we  should  get  on  together. 
We  should  be  two  of  a  trade,  so  we  should 
never  agree." 

"How  I  should  like  to  meet  the  man  who 
made  that  proverb!    He  lived  in  a  cave  and  ate 


i^  The  Light  that  Failed 

raw  bear,  I  fancy.  I'd  make  him  chew  his  own 
arrow-heads.     Well  ?  " 

"I  should  be  only  half  married  to  you.  I 
should  worry  and  fuss  about  my  work,  as  I  do 
now.  Four  days  out  of  the  seven  I'm  not  fit  to 
speak  to." 

"You  talk  as  if  no  one  else  in  the  world  had 
ever  used  a  brush.  D'you  suppose  that  I  don't 
know  the  feeling  of  worry  and  bother  and  can't- 
get-at-ness?  You're  lucky  if  you  only  have  it 
four  days  out  of  the  seven.  What  difference 
would  that  make  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal — if  you  had  it  too." 

"Yes,  but  I  could  respect  it.  Another  man 
might  not.  He  might  laugh  at  you.  But  there's 
no  use  talking  about  it.  If  you  can  think  in  that 
way  you  can't  care  for  me — yet." 

The  tide  had  nearly  covered  the  mud-banks, 
and  twenty  little  ripples  broke  on  the  beach  be- 
fore Maisie  chose  to  speak. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  slowly,  "I  believe  very 
much  that  you  are  better  than  I  am." 

"  This  doesn't  seem  to  bear  on  the  argument — 
but  in  what  way  ?  " 

"I  don't  quite  know,  but  in  what  you  said 
about  work  and  things ;  and  then  you're  so  pa- 
tient.   Yes,  you're  better  than  I  am." 

Dick  considered  rapidly  the  murkiness  of  an 
average  man's  life.    There  was  nothing  in  the 


The  Light  that  Failed  135 

review  to  fill  him  with  a  sense  of  virtue.  He 
lifted  the  hem  of  the  cloak  to  his  lips. 

"Why,"  said  Maisie,  making  as  though  she 
had  not  noticed,  "can  you  see  things  that  I  can't  ? 
I  don't  believe  what  you  believe;  but  you're 
right,  I  believe." 

"If  I've  seen  anything,  God  knows  I  couldn't 
have  seen  it  but  for  you,  and  I  know  that  I 
couldn't  have  said  it  except  to  you.  You  seemed 
to  make  everything  clear  for  a  minute;  but  I 
don't  practice  what  I  preach.  You  would  help 
me.  .  .  .  There  are  only  us  two  in  the  world 
for  all  purposes,  and — and  you  like  to  have  me 
with  you?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  I  wonder  if  you  can  realize 
how  utterly  lonely  I  am  1 " 

"Darling,  I  think  I  can." 

"Two  years  ago,  when  I  first  took  the  little 
house,  I  used  to  walk  up  and  down  the  back- 
garden  trying  to  cry.  I  never  can  cry.  Can 
you?" 

"  It's  some  time  since  I  tried.  What  was  the 
trouble  ?    Overwork  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  but  I  used  to  dream  that  I  had 
broken  down,  and  had  no  money,  and  was 
starving  in  London.  I  thought  about  it  all  day, 
and  it  frightened  me — oh,  how  it  frightened 
me!" 

"  I  know  that  fear.    It's  the  most  terrible  of 


1^6  The  Light  that  Failed 

all.  It  wakes  me  up  in  the  night  sometimes. 
You  oughtn't  to  know  anything  about  it." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Never  mind.  Is  your  three  hundred  a  year 
safe?" 

"It's  in  Consols." 

"Very  well.  If  any  one  comes  to  you  and 
recommends  a  better  investment, — even  if  I 
should  come  to  you, — don't  you  listen.  Never 
shift  the  money  for  a  minute,  and  never  lend  a 
penny  of  it, — even  to  the  red-haired  girl." 

"Don't  scold  me  sol  I'm  not  likely  to  be 
foolish." 

"  The  earth  is  full  of  men  who'd  sell  their  souls 
for  three  hundred  a  year;  and  women  come  and 
talk,  and  borrow  a  five-pound  note  here  and  a 
ten-pound  note  there;  and  a  woman  has  no  con- 
science in  a  money  debt.  Stick  to  your  money, 
Maisie;  for  there's  nothing  more  ghastly  in  the 
world  than  poverty  in  London.  It's  scared  me. 
By  Jove,  it  put  the  fear  into  me!  And  one 
oughtn't  to  be  afraid  of  anything." 

To  each  man  is  appointed  his  particular  dread, 
— the  terror  that,  if  he  does  not  fight  against  it, 
must  cow  him  even  to  the  loss  of  his  manhood. 
Dick's  experience  of  the  sordid  misery  of  want 
had  entered  into  the  deeps  of  him,  and,  lest  he 
might  find  virtue  too  easy,  that  memory  stood 
behind  him,  tempting  to  shame,  when  dealers 


The  Light  that  Failed  \yj 

came  to  buy  his  wares.  As  the  Nilghai  quaked 
against  his  will  at  the  still  green  water  of  a  lake 
or  mill-dam,  as  Torpenhow  flinched  before  any 
white  arm  that  could  cut  or  stab  and  loathed 
himself  for  flinching,  Dick  feared  the  poverty  he 
had  once  tasted  half  in  jest.  His  burden  was 
heavier  than  the  burdens  of  his  companions. 

Maisie  watched  the  face  working  in  the  moon- 
light. 

"  You've  plenty  of  pennies  now,"  she  said, 
soothingly. 

"I  shall  never  get  enough,"  he  began,  with 
vicious  emphasis.  Then,  laughing,  "I  shall  al- 
ways be  threepence  short  in  my  accounts." 

"  Why  threepence  ?  " 

"I  carried  a  man's  bag  once  from  Liverpool 
Street  Station  to  Blackfriars  Bridge.  It  was  a  six- 
penny job, — you  needn't  laugh;  indeed  it  was, — 
and  I  wanted  the  money  desperately.  He  only 
gave  me  threepence;  and  he  hadn't  even  the  de- 
cency to  pay  in  silver.  Whatever  money  I  make, 
I  shall  never  get  that  odd  threepence  out  of  the 
world." 

This  was  not  language  befitting  the  man  who 
had  preached  of  the  sanctity  of  work.  It  jarred 
on  Maisie,  who  preferred  her  payment  in  applause, 
which,  since  all  men  desire  it,  must  be  of  the 
right.  She  hunted  for  her  little  purse  and  gravely 
took  out  a  threepenny  bit. 


1^8  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  There  it  is,"  she  said.  "  I'll  pay  you,  Dickie; 
and  don't  worry  any  more;  it  isn't  worth  while. 
Are  you  paid  ?  " 

"I  am,"  said  the  very  human  apostle  of  fair 
craft,  taking  the  coin.  "I'm  paid  a  thousand 
times,  and  we'll  close  that  account.  It  shall  live 
on  my  watch-chain ;  and  you're  an  angel,  Maisie." 

"I'm  very  cramped,  and  I'm  feeling  a  little 
cold.  Good  gracious!  the  cloak  is  all  white,  and 
so  is  your  moustache  1  I  never  knew  it  was  so 
chilly." 

A  light  frost  lay  white  on  the  shoulder  of  Dick's 
ulster.  He,  too,  had  forgotten  the  state  of  the 
weather.  They  laughed  together,  and  with  that 
laugh  ended  all  serious  discourse. 

They  ran  inland  across  the  waste  to  warm 
themselves,  then  turned  to  look  at  the  glory  of 
the  full  tide  under  the  moonlight  and  the  intense 
black  shadows  of  the  furze-bushes.  It  was  an 
additional  joy  to  Dick  that  Maisie  could  see  color 
even  as  he  saw  it, — could  see  the  blue  in  the  white 
of  the  mist,  the  violet  that  is  in  grey  palings,  and 
all  things  else  as  they  are, — not  of  one  hue,  but  a 
thousand.  And  the  moonlight  came  into  Maisie's 
soul,  so  that  she,  usually  reserved,  chattered  of 
herself  and  of  the  things  she  took  interest  in, — of 
Kami,  wisest  of  teachers,  and  of  the  girls  in  the 
studio, — of  the  Poles,  who  will  kill  themselves 
with  overwork  if  they  are  not  checked;  of  the 


The  Light  that  Failed  1^9 

French,  who  talk  at  great  length  of  much  more 
than  they  will  ever  accomplish ;  of  the  slovenly 
English,  who  toil  hopelessly  and  cannot  under- 
stand that  inclination  does  not  imply  power;  of 
the  Americans,  whose  rasping  voices  in  the  hush 
of  a  hot  afternoon  strain  tense-drawn  nerves  to 
breaking-point,  and  whose  suppers  lead  to  indi- 
gestion; of  tempestuous  Russians,  neither  to  hold 
nor  to  bind,  who  tell  the  girls  ghost  stories  till  the 
girls  shriek;  of  stolid  Germans,  who  come  to 
learn  one  thing,  and,  having  mastered  that  much, 
stolidly  go  away  and  copy  pictures  forevermore. 
Dick  listened  enraptured  because  it  was  Maisie 
who  spoke.     He  knew  the  old  life. 

"  It  hasn't  changed  much,"  he  said.  "  Do  they 
still  steal  colors  at  lunch-time  ?  " 

"Not  steal.  Attract  is  the  word.  Of  course 
they  do.  I'm  good — I  only  attract  ultramarine; 
but  there  are  students  who'd  attract  flake-white." 

"  I've  done  it  myself.  You  can't  help  it  when 
the  palettes  are  hung  up.  Every  color  is  common 
property  once  it  runs  down, — even  though  you 
do  start  it  with  a  drop  of  oil.  It  teaches  people 
not  to  waste  their  tubes." 

"I  should  like  to  attract  some  of  your  colors, 
Dick.  Perhaps  I  might  catch  your  success  with 
them." 

"I  mustn't  say  a  bad  word,  but  I  should  like 
to.    What  in  the  world,  which  you've  just  missed 


140  The  Light  that  Failed 

a  lovely  chance  of  seeing,  does  success  or  want 
of  success,  or  a  three-storied  success,  matter  com- 
pared with —  No,  I  won't  open  that  question 
again.    It's  time  to  go  back  to  town." 

"I'm  sorry,  Dick,  but" — 

"  You're  much  more  interested  in  that  than  you 
are  in  me." 

"  I  don't  know.    I  don't  think  I  am." 

"What  will  you  give  me  if  I  tell  you  a  sure 
short-cut  to  everything  you  want, — the  trouble 
and  the  fuss  and  the  tangle  and  all  the  rest  ?  Will 
you  promise  to  obey  me  ?  " 

"Of  course." 

"In  the  first  place,  you  must  never  forget  a 
meal  because  you  happen  to  be  at  work.  You 
forgot  your  lunch  twice  last  week,"  said  Dick,  at 
a  venture,  for  he  knew  with  whom  he  was 
dealing. 

"No,  no, — only  once,  really." 

"  That's  bad  enough.  And  you  mustn't  take  a 
cup  of  tea  and  a  biscuit  in  place  of  a  regular 
dinner,  because  dinner  happens  to  be  a  trouble." 

"  You're  making  fun  of  me! " 

"  I  never  was  more  in  earnest  in  my  life.  Oh, 
my  love,  my  love,  hasn't  it  dawned  on  you  yet 
what  you  are  to  me  ?  Here's  the  whole  earth  in  a 
conspiracy  to  give  you  a  chill,  or  run  over  you,  or 
drench  you  to  the  skin,  or  cheat  you  out  of  your 
money,  or  let  you  die  of  overwork  and  under- 


The  Light  that  Failed  141 

feeding,  and  I  haven't  the  mere  right  to  look  after 
you.  Why,  I  don't  even  know  if  you  have  sense 
enough  to  put  on  warm  things  when  the  weath- 
er's cold." 

"Dick,  you're  the  most  awful  boy  to  talk  to — 
really!  How  do  you  suppose  I  managed  when 
you  were  away?" 

"I  wasn't  here,  and  I  didn't  know.  But  now 
I'm  back  I'd  give  everything  I  have  for  the  right 
of  telling  you  to  come  in  out  of  the  rain." 

"  Your  success  too  ?" 

This  time  it  cost  Dick  a  severe  struggle  to  re- 
frain from  bad  words. 

"As  Mrs.  Jennett  used  to  say,  you're  a  trial, 
Maisie!  You've  been  cooped  up  in  the  schools 
too  long,  and  you  think  every  one  is  looking  at 
you.  There  aren't  twelve  hundred  people  in  the 
world  who  understand  pictures.  The  others  pre- 
tend and  don't  care.  Remember,  I've  seen  twelve 
hundred  men  dead  in  toadstool-beds.  It's  only 
the  voice  of  the  tiniest  little  fraction  of  people  that 
makes  success.  The  real  world  doesn't  care  a 
tinker's — doesn't  care  a  bit.  For  aught  you  or  I 
know,  every  man  in  the  world  may  be  arguiqg 
with  a  Maisie  of  his  own." 

"Poor  Maisie!" 

"Poor  Dick,  I  think.  Do  you  believe  while 
he's  fighting  for  what's  dearer  than  his  life  he 
wants  to  look  at  a  picture  ?    And  even  if  he  did. 


14*  The  Light  that  Failed 

and  if  all  the  world  did,  and  a  thousand  million 
people  rose  up  and  shouted  hymns  to  my  honor 
and  glory,  would  that  make  up  to  me  for  the 
knowledge  that  you  were  out  shopping  in  the 
Edgware  Road  on  a  rainy  day  without  an  um- 
brella ?    Now  we'll  go  to  the  station." 

"  But  you  said  on  the  beach  " — persisted  Maisie, 
with  a  certain  fear. 

Dick  groaned  aloud:  "Yes,  I  know  what  I 
said.  My  work  is  everything  I  have,  or  am,  or 
hope  to  be,  to  me,  and  I  believe  I've  learned  the 
law  that  governs  it;  but  I've  some  lingering  sense 
of  fun  left, — though  you've  nearly  knocked  it  out 
of  me.  I  can  just  see  that  it  isn't  everything  to  all 
the  world.     Do  what  I  say,  and  not  what  I  do." 

Maisie  was  careful  not  to  reopen  debatable 
matters,  and  they  returned  to  London  joyously. 
The  terminus  stopped  Dick  in  the  midst  of  an 
eloquent  harangue  on  the  beauties  of  exercise. 
He  would  buy  Maisie  a  horse, — such  a  horse  as 
never  yet  bowed  head  to  bit, — would  stable  it, 
with  a  companion,  some  twenty  miles  from  Lon- 
don, and  Maisie,  solely  for  her  health's  sake, 
should  ride  with  him  twice  or  thrice  a  week. 

"That's  absurd,"  said  she.  "It  wouldn't  be 
proper." 

"  Now,  who  in  all  London  to-night  would  have 
sufficient  interest  or  audacity  to  call  us  two  to  ac- 
count for  anything  we  chose  to  do  ?  " 


The  Light  that  Failed  143 

Maisie  looked  at  the  lamps,  the  fog,  and  the 
hideous  turmoil.  Dick  was  right;  but  horseflesh 
did  not  make  for  Art  as  she  understood  it. 

"You're  very  nice  sometimes,  but  you're  very 
foolish  more  times.  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  give 
me  horses,  or  take  you  out  of  your  way  to-night. 
I'll  go  home  by  myself.  Only  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  something.  You  won't  think  any 
more  about  that  extra  threepence,  will  you  ?  Re- 
member, you've  been  paid;  and  I  won't  allow 
you  to  be  spiteful  and  do  bad  work  for  a  little 
thing  like  that.  You  can  be  so  big  that  you 
mustn't  be  tiny." 

This  was  turning  the  tables  with  a  vengeance. 
There  remained  only  to  put  Maisie  into  her 
hansom. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  simply.  '*  You'll  come 
on  Sunday.  It  has  been  a  beautiful  day,  Dick. 
Why  can't  it  be  like  this  always?" 

"Because  love's  like  line- work:  you  must  go 
forward  or  backward;  you  can't  stand  still.  By 
the  way,  go  on  with  your  line-work.  Good- 
night, and,  for  my — for  any  sake,  take  care  of 
yourself." 

He  turned  to  walk  home,  meditating.  The  day 
had  brought  him  nothing  that  he  hoped  for,  but 
— surely  this  was  worth  many  days — it  had 
brought  him  nearer  to  Maisie.  The  end  was  only 
a  question  of  time  now,  and  the  prize  well  worth 


144  The  Light  that  Failed 

the  waiting.  By  instinct,  once  more,  he  turned 
to  the  river. 

"And  she  understood  at  once,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  the  water.  "She  found  out  my  pet  beset- 
ting sin  on  the  spot,  and  paid  it  off.  My  God, 
how  she  understood!  And  she  said  I  was  better 
than  she  was!  Better  than  she  was!"  He 
laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  the  notion.  "  I  won- 
der if  girls  guess  at  one-half  a  man's  life.  They 
can't,  or — they  wouldn't  marry  us."  He  took 
her  gift  out  of  his  pocket,  and  considered  it  in  the 
light  of  a  miracle  and  a  pledge  of  the  comprehen- 
sion that,  one  day,  would  lead  to  perfect  happi- 
ness. Meantime,  Maisie  was  alone  in  London, 
with  none  to  save  her  from  danger.  And  the 
packed  wilderness  was  very  full  of  danger. 

Dick  made  his  prayer  to  Fate  disjointedly  after 
the  manner  of  the  heathen  as  he  threw  the  piece 
of  silver  into  the  river.  If  any  evil  were  to  befall, 
let  him  bear  the  burden  and  let  Maisie  go  un- 
scathed, since  the  threepenny  piece  was  dearest 
to  him  of  all  his  possessions.  It  was  a  small  coin 
in  itself,  but  Maisie  had  given  it,  and  the  Thames 
held  it,  and  surely  the  Fates  would  be  bribed  for 
this  once. 

The  drowning  of  the  coin  seemed  to  cut  him 
free  from  thought  of  Maisie  for  the  moment.  He 
took  himself  off  the  bridge  and  went  whistling 
to  his  chambers  with  a  strong  yearning  for  some 


The  Light  that  Failed  145 

man-talk  and  tobacco  after  his  first  experience  of 
an  entire  day  spent  in  the  society  of  a  woman. 
There  was  a  stronger  desire  at  his  heart  when 
there  rose  before  him  an  unsolicited  vision  of  the 
Barralong  dipping  deep  and  sailing  free  for  the 
Southern  Cross. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

And  these  two,  as  I  have  told  you, 
Were  the  friends  of  Hiawatha, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 

— Hiawatha. 

Torpenhow  was  paging  the  last  sheets  of  some 
manuscript,  while  the  Nilghai,  who  had  come 
for  chess  and  remained  to  talk  tactics,  was  read- 
ing through  the  first  part,  commenting  scornfully 
the  while. 

"It's  picturesque  enough  and  it's  sketchy," 
said  he;  "but  as  a  serious  consideration  of  affairs 
in  Eastern  Europe,  it's  not  worth  much." 

"  It's  off  my  hands  at  any  rate.  .  .  .  Thirty- 
seven,  thirty-eight,  thirty-nine  slips  altogether, 
aren't  there  ?  That  should  make  between  eleven 
and  twelve  pages  of  valuable  misinformation. 
Heigho!"  Torpenhow  shuffled  the  writing  to- 
gether and  hummed  — 

Young  lambs  to  sell,  young  lambs  to  sell, 
If  I'd  as  much  money  as  I  could  tell, 
I  never  would  cry,  Young  lambs  to  sell ! 

Dick  entered,  self-conscious  and  a  little  defiant, 
but  in  the  best  of  tempers  with  all  the  world. 
140 


The  Light  that  Failed  147 

"  Back  at  last  ?"  said  Torpenhow. 

"More  or  less.  What  have  you  been  do- 
ing?" 

"Work.  Dickie,  you  behave  as  though  the 
Bank  of  England  were  behind  you.  Here's  Sun- 
day, Monday,  and  Tuesday  gone  and  you  haven't 
done  a  line.     It's  scandalous." 

"The  notions  come  and  go,  my  children — they 
come  and  go  like  our  'baccy,"  he  answered,  fill- 
ing his  pipe.  "Moreover,"  he  stooped  to  thrust 
a  spill  into  the  grate,  "Apollo  does  not  always 
stretch  his —  Oh,  confound  your  clumsy  jests, 
Nilghai!" 

"This  is  not  the  place  to  preach  the  theory  of 
direct  inspiration,"  said  the  Nilghai,  returning 
Torpenhow's  large  and  workmanlike  bellows  to 
their  nail  on  the  wall.  "We  believe  in  cobblers' 
wax.     La! — where  you  sit  down." 

"If  you  weren't  so  big  and  fat,"  said  Dick, 
looking  round  for  a  weapon,  "I'd"  — 

"No  skylarking  in  my  rooms.  You  two 
smashed  half  my  furniture  last  time  you  threw 
the  cushions  about.  You  might  have  the  de- 
cency to  say  How  d'  you  do  ?  to  Binkie.  Look 
at  him." 

Binkie  had  jumped  down  from  the  sofa  and 
was  fawning  round  Dick's  knee,  and  scratching 
at  his  boots. 

"Dear  man!"  said  Dickie,  snatching  him  up, 


148  The  Light  that  Failed 

and  kissing  him  on  the  black  patch  above  his 
right  eye.  "Did  urns  was,  Binks?  Did  that 
ugly  Nilghai  turn  you  off  the  sofa  ?  Bite  him, 
Mr.  Binkle."  He  pitched  him  on  the  Nilghai's 
stomach,  as  the  big  man  lay  at  ease,  and  Binkre 
pretended  to  destroy  the  Nilghai  inch  by  inch,  till 
a  sofa  cushion  extinguished  him,  and  panting  he 
stuck  out  his  tongue  at  the  company. 

"The  Binkie-boy  went  for  a  walk  this  morn- 
ing before  you  were  up,  Torp.  I  saw  him  mak- 
ing love  to  the  butcher  at  the  corner  when  the 
shutters  were  being  taken  down — just  as  if  he 
hadn't  enough  to  eat  in  his  own  proper  house," 
said  Dick. 

"Binks,  is  that  a  true  bill?"  said  Torpenhow 
severely.  The  little  dog  retreated  under  the 
sofa-cushion,  and  showed  by  the  fat  white  back 
of  him  that  he  really  had  no  further  interest  in 
the  discussion. 

"'Strikes  me  that  another  disreputable  dog 
went  for  a  walk,  too,"  said  the  Nilghai.  "  What 
made  you  get  up  so  early  ?  Torp  said  you  might 
be  buying  a  horse  ?  " 

"He  knows  it  would  need  three  of  us  for  a 
serious  business  like  that.  No,  I  felt  lonesome 
and  unhappy,  so  I  went  out  to  look  at  the  sea, 
and  watch  the  pretty  ships  go  by." 

"Where  did  you  go?" 

"Somewhere   on    the    Channel.     Progly   or 


The  Light  that  Failed  149 

Snigly,  or  some  one  horse  watering-place  was 
its  name;  I've  forgotten;  but  it  was  only  two 
hours'  run  from  London  and  the  ships  went  by." 

"Did  you  see  anything  you  knew?" 

"Only  the  Barralong  outward  to  Australia, 
and  an  Odessa  grain-boat  loaded  down  by  the 
head.  It  was  a  thick  day,  but  the  sea  smelt 
good." 

"Wherefore  put  on  one's  best  trousers  to  see 
the  Barralong?"  said  Torpenhow,  pointing. 

"  Because  I've  nothing  except  these  things  and 
my  painting  duds.  Besides,  I  wanted  to  do 
honor  to  the  sea." 

"Did  she  make  you  feel  restless?"  asked  the 
Nilghai,  keenly. 

"Crazy.  Don't  speak  of  it.  I'm  sorry  I 
went." 

Torpenhow  and  the  Nilghai  exchanged  a  look 
as  Dick,  stooping,  busied  himself  among  the 
former's  boots  and  trees. 

"These  will  do,"  he  said  at  last;  "I  can't  say  I 
think  much  of  your  taste  in  slippers,  but  the  fit's 
the  thing."  He  slipped  his  feet  into  a  pair  of 
sock-like  sambhur-skin  foot  coverings,  found  a 
long  chair,  and  lay  at  length. 

"They're  my  own  pet  pair,"  Torpenhow  said. 
"  I  was  just  going  to  put  them  on  myself." 

"  'All  your  reprehensible  selfishness.  Just  be- 
cause you  see  me  happy  for  a  minute,  you  want 


iy>  The  Light  that  Failed 

to  worry  me  and  stir  me  up.  Find  another 
pair." 

"  Good  for  you  that  Dick  can't  wear  your 
clothes,  Torp.  You  two  live  communistically," 
said  the  Nilghai. 

"Dick  never  has  anything  that  I  can  wear. 
He's  only  useful  to  sponge  upon." 

"Confound  you,  have  you  been  rummaging 
round  among  my  caches,  then  ?  "  said  Dick.  "  1 
put  a  sovereign  in  the  tobacco-jar  yesterday. 
How  do  you  expect  a  man  to  keep  his  accounts 
properly  if  you  " — 

Here  the  Nilghai  began  to  laugh,  and  Torpen- 
how  joined  him. 

"Hid  a  sovereign  yesterday!  You're  no  sort 
of  a  financier.  You  loaned  me  a  fiver  about  a 
month  back.  Do  you  remember  ?  "  Torpenhow 
said. 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"Do  you  remember  that  I  paid  it  you  ten 
days  later,  and  you  put  it  at  the  bottom  of  the 
tobacco?" 

"  By  Jove,  did  I  ?  I  thought  it  was  in  one  of 
my  color-boxes." 

"  You  thought!  About  a  week  ago  I  went  into 
your  studio  to  get  some  'baccy  and  found  it." 

"  What  did  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"Took  the  Nilghai  to  a  theatre  and  fed  him." 

"You  couldn't  feed  the  Nilghai  under  twice 


The  Light  that  Failed  151 

the  money — not  though  you  gave  him  Army 
beef.  Well,  I  suppose  1  should  have  found  it  out 
sooner  or  later.     What  is  there  to  laugh  at  ?  " 

'*  You're  a  most  amazing  cuckoo  in  many  di- 
rections," said  the  Nilghai,  still  chuckling  over 
the  thought  of  the  dinner.  "Nevermind.  We 
had  both  been  working  very  hard,  and  it  was 
your  unearned  increment  we  spent,  and  as  you're 
only  a  loafer  it  didn't  matter." 

"  That's  pleasant — from  the  man  who  is  burst- 
ing with  my  meat,  too.  I'll  get  that  dinner  back 
one  of  these  days.  Suppose  we  go  to  a  theatre 
now." 

"  'Put  our  boots  on, — and  dress, — and  wash  ?  " 
The  Nilghai  spoke  very  lazily. 

"  I  withdraw  the  motion." 

"Suppose,  just  for  a  change — as  a  startling 
variety,  you  know — we,  that  is  to  say  we,  get 
our  charcoal  and  our  canvas  and  go  on  with  our 
work."  Torpenhow  spoke  pointedly,  but  Dick 
only  wriggled  his  toes  inside  the  soft  leather 
moccasins. 

"  What  a  one-idead  clucker  it  is!  If  I  had  any 
unfinished  figures  on  hand,  I  haven't  any  model; 
if  I  had  my  model,  I  haven't  any  spray,  and  I 
never  leave  charcoal  unfixed  over  night;  and  if  ) 
had  my  spray  and  twenty  photographs  of  back- 
grounds, I  couldn't  do  anything  to-night.  I  don'* 
feel  that  way." 


152  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  Binkie-dog,  he's  a  lazy  hog,  isn't  he  ?  "  said 
the  Nilghai. 

11  Very  good,  I  will  do  some  work,"  said  Dick, 
rising  swiftly.  "I'll  fetch  the  Nungapunga 
Book,  and  we'll  add  another  picture  to  the  Nil- 
ghai Saga." 

"Aren't  you  worrying  him  a  little  too  much?" 
asked  the  Nilghai,  when  Dick  had  left  the  room. 

"  Perhaps,  but  I  know  what  he  can  turn  out  if 
he  likes.  It  makes  me  savage  to  hear  him  praised 
for  past  work  when  I  know  what  he  ought  to 
do.     You  and  I  are  arranged  for  " — 

"By  Kismet  and  our  own  powers,  more's  the 
pity.     I  have  dreamed  of  a  good  deal." 

"  So  have  I,  but  we  know  our  limitations  now. 
I'm  dashed  if  I  know  what  Dick's  may  be  when 
he  gives  himself  to  his  work.  That's  what 
makes  me  so  keen  about  him." 

"And  when  all's  said  and  done,  you  will  be 
put  aside — quite  rightly — for  a  female  girl." 

"I  wonder.  .  .  .  Where  do  you  think  he 
has  been  to-day  ?  " 

"To  the  sea.  Didn't  you  see  the  look  in  his 
eyes  when  he  talked  about  her  ?  He's  as  restless 
as  a  swallow  in  autumn." 

"Yes;  but  did  he  go  alone?" 

"I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care,  but  he  has 
the  beginnings  of  the  go-fever  upon  him.  He 
wants  to  up-stakes  and  move  out.    There's  no 


The  Light  that  Failed  153 

mistaking  the  signs.  Whatever  he  may  have 
said  before,  he  has  the  call  upon  him  now." 

"It  might  be  his  salvation,"  Torpenhow  said. 

"  Perhaps — if  you  care  to  take  the  responsi- 
bility of  being  a  saviour:  I'm  averse  to  tampering 
with  souls  myself." 

Dick  returned  with  a  great  clasp  sketch-book 
that  the  Nilghai  knew  well  and  did  not  love  too 
much.  In  it  Dick  had  drawn  in  his  playtime  all 
manner  of  moving  incidents,  experienced  by 
himself  or  related  to  him  by  the  others,  of  all  the 
four  corners  of  the  earth.  But  the  wider  range 
of  the  Nilghai's  body  and  life  attracted  him  most. 
When  truth  failed  here  he  fell  back  on  fiction  of 
the  wildest,  and  represented  incidents  in  the 
Nilghai's  career  that  were  unseemly, — his  mar- 
riages with  many  African  princesses,  his  shame- 
less betrayal,  for  Arab  wives,  of  army  corps  to 
the  Mahdi,  his  tattooment  by  skilled  operators  in 
Burmah,  his  interview  (and  his  fears)  with  the 
yellow  headsman  in  the  blood-stained  execution- 
ground  of  Canton,  and  finally,  the  passings  of 
his  spirit  into  the  bodies  of  whales,  elephants, 
and  toucans.  Torpenhow  from  time  to  time 
had  added  rhymed  descriptions,  and  the  whole 
was  a  curious  piece  of  art,  because  Dick  decided, 
having  regard  to  the  name  of  the  book  which 
being  interpreted  means  "naked,"  that  it  would 
be  wrong  to  draw  the  Nilghai  with  any  clothes 


154  The  Light  that  Failed 

on,  under  any  circumstances.  Consequently  the 
last  sketch,  representing  that  much-enduring  man 
calling  on  the  War  Office  to  press  his  claims  to 
the  Egyptian  medal,  was  hardly  delicate.  He 
settled  himself  comfortably  at  Torpenhow's  table 
and  turned  over  the  pages. 

"What  a  fortune  you  would  have  been  to 
Blake,  Nilghai!"  he  said.  "There's  a  succulent 
pinkness  about  some  of  these  sketches  that's 
more  than  lifelike.  'The  Nilghai  surrounded 
while  bathing  by  the  Madieh ' — that  was  founded 
on  fact,  eh  ?" 

"  It  was  very  nearly  my  last  bath,  you  irrever- 
ent dauber.  Has  Binkie  come  into  the  Saga 
yet?" 

"No;  the  Binkie-boy  hasn't  done  anything  ex- 
cept eat  and  kill  cats.  Let's  see.  Here  you  are 
as  a  stained-glass  saint,  in  a  church.  'Deuced 
decorative  lines  about  your  anatomy ;  you  ought 
to  be  grateful  for  being  handed  down  to  posterity 
in  this  way.  Fifty  years  hence  you'll  exist  in 
rare  and  curious  facsimiles  at  ten  guineas  each. 
What  shall  I  try  this  time  ?  The  domestic  life  of 
the  Nilghai?" 

"'Hasn't  got  any." 

"The  undomestic  life  of  the  Nilghai,  then. 
Of  course!  Mass-meeting  of  his  wives  in  Traf- 
algar Square.  That's  it.  They  came  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth  to  attend  Nilghai's  wedding  to 


The  Light  that  Failed  155 

an  English  bride.  This  shall  be  in  sepia.  It's  a 
sweet  material  to  work  with." 

"It's  a  scandalous  waste  of  time,"  said  Tor- 
penhow. 

"Don't  worry;  it  keeps  one's  hand  in — spe- 
cially when  you  begin  without  the  pencil."  He 
set  to  work  rapidly.  "That's  Nelson's  Column. 
Presently  the  Nilghai  will  appear  shinning  up  it." 

"Give  him  some  clothes  this  time." 

"  Certainly — a  veil  and  an  orange-wreath,  be- 
cause he's  been  married." 

"  Gad,  that's  clever  enough! "  said  Torpenhow, 
over  his  shoulder,  as  Dick  brought  out  of  the 
paper  with  three  twirls  of  the  brush  a  very  fat 
back  and  laboring  shoulder  pressed  against  the 
stone. 

"Just  imagine,"  Dick  continued,  "if  we  could 
publish  a  few  of  these  dear  little  things  every 
time  the  Nilghai  subsidizes  a  man  who  can  write, 
to  give  the  public  an  honest  opinion  of  my 
pictures." 

"Well,  you'll  admit  I  always  tell  you  when  I 
have  done  anything  of  that  kind.  I  know  I  can't 
hammer  you  as  you  ought  to  be  hammered,  so  I 
give  the  job  to  another.  Young  Maclagan,  for 
instance  "  — 

"No-o — one  half-minute,  old  man;  stick  your 
hand  out  against  the  dark  of  the  wall-paper — 
you  only  burble  and  call  me  names.    That  left 


156  The  Light  that  Failed 

shoulder's  out  of  drawing.  I  must  literally 
throw  a  veil  over  that.  Where's  my  pen-knife  ? 
Well,  what  about  Maclagan  ?" 

"  I  only  gave  him  his  riding-orders  to — to  lam- 
bast  you  on  general  principles  for  not  producing 
work  that  will  last." 

"Whereupon  that  young  fool," — Dick  threw 
back  his  head  and  shut  one  eye  as  he  shifted  the 
page  under  his  hand, — "being  left  alone  with  an 
ink-pot  and  what  he  conceived  were  his  own 
notions,  went  and  spilled  them  both  over  me  in 
the  papers.  You  might  have  engaged  a  grown 
man  for  the  business,  Nilghai.  How  do  you 
think  the  bridal  veil  looks  now,  Torp  ?  " 

"How  the  deuce  do  three  dabs  and  two 
scratches  make  the  stuff  stand  away  from  the 
body  as  it  does?"  said  Torpenhow,  to  whom 
Dick's  methods  were  always  new. 

"It  just  depends  on  where  you  put  'em.  If 
Maclagan  had  known  that  much  about  his  busi- 
ness he  might  have  done  better." 

"Why  don't  you  put  the  damned  dabs  into 
something  that  will  stay,  then?"  insisted  the 
Nilghai,  who  had  really  taken  considerable 
trouble  in  hiring  for  Dick's  benefit  the  pen  of  a 
young  gentleman  who  devoted  most  of  his  wak- 
ing hours  to  an  anxious  consideration  of  the  aims 
and  ends  of  Art,  which,  he  wrote,  was  one  and 
indivisible. 


The  Light  that  Failed  1 57 

"Wait  a  minute  till  I  see  how  I  am  going  to 
manage  my  procession  of  wives.  You  seem  to 
have  married  extensively,  and  I  must  rough  'em 
in  with  the  pencil — Medes,  Parthians,  Edomites. 
.  .  .  Now,  setting  aside  the  weakness  and 
the  wickedness  and — and  the  fat-headedness  of 
deliberately  trying  to  do  work  that  will  live,  as 
they  call  it,  I'm  content  with  the  knowledge  that 
I've  done  my  best  up  to  date,  and  I  shan't  do 
anything  like  it  again  for  some  hours  at  least — 
probably  years.     Most  probably  never." 

11  What!  any  stuff  you  have  in  stock  your  best 
work?"  said  Torpenhow. 

"Anything  you've  sold?"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"  Oh  no.  It  isn't  here  and  it  isn't  sold.  Better 
than  that,  it  can't  be  sold,  and  I  don't  think  any 
one  knows  where  it  is.  I'm  sure  I  don't.  .  . 
.  And  yet  more  and  more  wives,  on  the  north 
side  of  the  square.  Observe  the  virtuous  horror 
of  the  lions!" 

"You  may  as  well  explain,"  said  Torpenhow, 
and  Dick  lifted  his  head  from  the  paper. 

"The  sea  reminded  me  of  it,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"I  wish  it  hadn't.  It  weighs  some  few  thou- 
sand tons — unless  you  cut  it  out  with  a  cold 
chisel." 

"Don't  be  an  idiot.  You  can't  pose  with  us 
here,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"There's  no  pose  in  the  matter  at  all.    It's  a 


158  The  Light  that  Failed 

fact.  I  was  loafing  from  Lima  to  Auckland  in  a 
big,  old,  condemned  passenger-ship  turned  into 
a  cargo-boat  and  owned  by  a  second-hand  Italian 
firm.  She  was  a  crazy  basket.  We  were  cut 
down  to  fifteen  ton  of  coal  a  day,  and  we 
thought  ourselves  lucky  when  we  kicked  seven 
knots  an  hour  out  of  her.  Then  we  used  to  stop 
and  let  the  bearings  cool  down,  and  wonder 
whether  the  crack  in  the  shaft  was  spreading." 

"Were  you  a  steward  or  a  stoker  in  those 
days?" 

"I  was  flush  for  the  time  being,  so  I  was  a 
passenger,  or  else  I  should  have  been  a  steward,  I 
think,"  said  Dick,  with  perfect  gravity,  returning 
to  the  procession  of  angry  wives.  "I  was  the 
only  other  passenger  from  Lima,  and  the  ship 
was  half  empty,  and  full  of  rats  and  cockroaches 
and  scorpions." 

"  But  what  has  this  to  do  with  the  picture  ?" 

"Wait  a  minute.  She  had  been  in  the  China 
passenger  trade  and  her  lower  deck  had  bunks 
for  two  thousand  pigtails.  Those  were  all  taken 
down,  and  she  was  empty  up  to  her  nose,  and 
the  lights  came  through  the  port-holes — most 
annoying  lights  to  work  in  till  you  got  used  to 
them.  I  hadn't  anything  to  do  for  weeks.  The 
ship's  charts  were  in  pieces  and  our  skipper 
daren't  run  south  for  fear  of  catching  a  storm. 
So  he  did  his  best  to  knock  all  the  Society  Islands 


The  Light  that  Failed  159 

out  of  the  water  one  by  one,  and  I  went  into  the 
lower  deck,  and  did  my  picture  on  the  port  side 
as  far  forward  in  her  as  I  could  go.  There  was 
some  brown  paint  and  some  green  paint  that  they 
used  for  the  boats,  and  some  black  paint  for  iron- 
work, and  that  was  all  1  had." 

"The  passengers  must  have  thought  you 
mad." 

"There  was  only  one,  and  it  was  a  woman; 
but  it  gave  me  the  notion  of  my  picture." 

"  What  was  she  like  ?  "  said  Torpenhow. 

"She  was  a  sort  of  Negroid-Jewess-Cuban; 
with  morals  to  match.  She  couldn't  read  or 
write,  and  she  didn't  want  to,  but  she  used  to 
come  down  and  watch  me  paint,  and  the  skipper 
didn't  like  it,  because  he  was  paying  her  passage 
and  had  to  be  on  the  bridge  occasionally." 

"I  see.     That  must  have  been  cheerful." 

"It  was  the  best  time  I  ever  had.  To  begin 
with,  we  didn't  know  whether  we  should  go  up 
or  go  down  any  minute  when  there  was  a  sea 
on;  and  when  it  was  calm  it  was  paradise;  and 
the  woman  used  to  mix  the  paints  and  talk 
broken  English,  and  the  skipper  used  to  steal 
down  every  few  minutes  to  the  lower  deck,  be- 
cause he  said  he  was  afraid  of  fire.  So,  you  see, 
we  could  never  tell  when  we  might  be  caught, 
and  I  had  a  splendid  notion  to  work  out  in  only 
three  keys  of  color." 


160  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  What  was  the  notion  ?  " 
"Two  lines  in  Poe  — 

"  Neither  the  angels  in  Heaven  above  nor  the  demons  down 

under  the  sea, 
Can   ever   dissever   my  soul   from  the   soul  of  the   beautiful 

Annabel  Lee. 

It  came  out  of  the  sea — all  by  itself.  I  drew  that 
fight,  fought  out  in  green  water  over  the  naked, 
choking  soul,  and  the  woman  served  as  the  model 
for  the  devils  and  the  angels  both — sea-devils  and 
sea-angels,  and  the  soul  half  drowned  between 
them.  It  doesn't  sound  much,  but  when  there 
was  a  good  light  on  the  lower  deck  it  looked 
very  fine  and  creepy.  It  was  seven  by  four- 
teen feet,  all  done  in  shifting  light  for  shifting 
light." 

"Did  the  woman  inspire  you  much?"  said 
Torpenhow. 

"She  and  the  sea  between  them — immensely. 
There  was  a  heap  of  bad  drawing  in  that  picture. 
I  remember  I  went  out  of  my  way  to  foreshorten 
for  sheer  delight  of  doing  it,  and  I  foreshortened 
damnably,  but  for  all  that  it's  the  best  thing  I've 
ever  done;  and  now  I  suppose  the  ship's  broken 
up  or  gone  down.  Whew!  What  a  time  that 
was!" 

"What  happened  after  all  ? " 

"It  all  ended.    They  were  loading  her  with 


The  Light  that  Failed  161 

wool  when  I  left  the  ship,  but  even  the  stevedores 
kept  the  picture  clear  to  the  last.  The  eyes  of 
the  demons  scared  them,  I  honestly  believe." 

"And  the  woman?" 

"She  was  scared  too  when  it  was  finished. 
She  used  to  cross  herself  before  she  went  down 
to  look  at  it.  Just  three  colors  and  no  chance  of 
getting  any  more,  and  the  sea  outside  and  un- 
limited love-making  inside,  and  the  fear  of  death 
atop  of  everything  else,  O  Lord !  "  He  had  ceased 
to  look  at  the  sketch,  but  was  staring  straight  in 
front  of  him  across  the  room. 

"Why  don't  you  try  something  of  the  same 
kind  now  ?"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"  Because  those  things  come  not  by  fasting  and 
prayer.  When  I  find  a  cargo-boat  and  a  Jewess- 
Cuban  and  another  notion  and  the  same  old  life, 
I  may." 

"You  won't  find  them  here,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"No,  I  shall  not."  Dick  shut  the  sketch-book 
with  a  bang.  "This  room's  as  hot  as  an  oven. 
Open  the  window,  some  one." 

He  leaned  into  the  darkness,  watching  the 
greater  darkness  of  London  below  him.  The 
chambers  stood  much  higher  than  the  other 
houses,  commanding  a  hundred  chimneys- 
crooked  cowls  that  looked  like  sitting  cats  as  they 
swung  round,  and  other  uncouth  brick  and  zinc 
mysteries    supported    by    iron    stanchions    and 


1 6a  The  Light  that  Failed 

clamped  by  S-pieces.  Northward  the  lights  of 
Piccadilly  Circus  and  Leicester  Square  threw  a 
copper-colored  glare  above  the  black  roofs,  and 
southward  lay  all  the  orderly  lights  of  the  Thames. 
A  train  rolled  out  across  one  of  the  railway 
bridges,  and  its  thunder  drowned  for  a  minute 
the  dull  roar  of  the  streets.  The  Nilghai  looked 
at  his  watch  and  said  shortly,  "That's  the  Paris 
night-mail.  You  can  book  from  here  to  St. 
Petersburg  if  you  choose." 

Dick  crammed  head  and  shoulders  out  of  the 
window  and  looked  across  the  river.  Torpenhow 
came  to  his  side,  while  the  Nilghai  passed  over 
quietly  to  the  piano  and  opened  it.  Binkie,  mak- 
ing himself  as  large  as  possible,  spread  out  upon 
the  sofa  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  not  to  be 
lightly  disturbed. 

"Well,"  said  the  Nilghai  to  the  two  pairs  of 
shoulders,  "  have  you  never  seen  this  place  be- 
fore?" 

A  steam-tug  on  the  river  hooted  as  she  towed 
her  barges  to  wharf.  Then  the  boom  of  the  traf- 
fic came  into  the  room.  Torpenhow  nudged 
Dick.  ' '  Good  place  to  bank  in — bad  place  to  bunk 
in,  Dickie,  isn't  it?" 

Dick's  chin  was  in  his  hand  as  he  answered,  in 
the  words  of  a  general  not  without  fame,  still 
rooking  out  on  the  darkness—" '  My  God,  what  a 
city  to  lootl'" 


The  Light  that  Failed  163 

Binkie  found  the  night  air  tickling  his  whiskers 
and  sneezed  plaintively. 

'.'We  shall  give  the  Binkie-dog  a  cold,"  said 
Torpenhow.  "Come  in,"  and  they  withdrew 
their  heads.  "  You'll  be  buried  in  Kensal  Green, 
Dick,  one  of  these  days,  if  it  isn't  closed  by  the 
time  you  want  to  go  there — buried  within  two 
feet  of  some  one  else,  his  wife  and  his  family." 

"Allah  forbid!  I  shall  get  away  before  that 
time  comes.  Give  a  man  room  to  stretch  his  legs, 
Mr.  Binkie."  Dick  flung  himself  down  on  the 
sofa  and  tweaked  Binkie's  velvet  ears,  yawning 
heavily  the  while. 

"  You'll  find  that  wardrobe-case  very  much  out 
of  tune,"  Torpenhow  said  to  the  Nilghai.  "It's 
never  touched  except  by  you." 

"  A  piece  of  gross  extravagance,"  Dick  grunted. 
"  The  Nilghai  only  comes  when  I'm  out." 

"That's  because  you're  always  out.  Howl, 
Nilghai,  and  let  him  hear." 

The  life  of  the  Nilghai  is  fraud  and  slaughter, 
His  writings  are  watered  Dickens  and  water; 
But  the  voice  of  the  Nilghai  raised  on  high 
Makes  even  the  Mahdieh  glad  to  die ! 

Dick  quoted  from  Torpenhow's  letterpress  in  the 
Nungapunga  Book.     "  How  do  they  call  moose 
in  Canada,  Nilghai?" 
The  man  laughed.    Singing  was  his  one  polite 


164  The  Light  that  Failed 

accomplishment,  as  many  Press-tents  in  far-off 
lands  had  known. 

"  What  shall  I  sing  ?  "  said  he,  turning  in  the 
chair. 

" ■ Moll  Roe  in  the  Morning,'" said Torpenhow, 
at  a  venture. 

"No,"  said  Dick,  sharply,  and  the  Nilghai 
opened  his  eyes.  The  old  chanty  whereof  he, 
among  a  very  few,  possessed  all  the  words  was 
not  a  pretty  one,  but  Dick  had  heard  it  many  times 
before  without  wincing.  Without  prelude  he 
launched  into  that  stately  tune  that  calls  together 
and  troubles  the  hearts  of  the  gipsies  of  the  sea  — 

Farewell  and  adieu  to  you,  Spanish  ladies, 
Farewell  and  adieu  to  you,  ladies  of  Spain. 

Dick  turned  uneasily  on  the  sofa,  for  he  could 
hear  the  bows  of  the  Harralong  crashing  into  the 
green  seas  on  her  way  to  the  Southern  Cross. 
Then  came  the  chorus  — 

We'll  rant  and  we'll  roar  like  true  British  sailors, 
We'll  rant  and  we'll  roar  across  the  salt  seas, 
Until  we  take 'soundings  in  the  Channel  of  Old  England 
From  Ushant  to  Scilly  'tis  forty-five  leagues. 

"Thirty-five — thirty-five,"  said  Dick,  petu- 
lantly. "  Don't  tamper  with  Holy  Writ.  Go  on, 
Nilghai." 

The  first  land  we  made  it  was  called  the  Deadman, 

and  they  sang  to  the  end  very  vigorously. 


The  Light  that  Failed  165 

"  That  would  be  a  better  song  if  her  head  were 
turned  the  other  way — to  the  Ushant  light,  for 
instance,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"  Flinging  its  arms  about  like  a  mad  windmill," 
said  Torpenhow.  "  Give  us  something  else,  Nil- 
ghai.    You're  in  fine  fog-horn  form  to-night." 

"  Give  us  the  '  Ganges  Pilot':  you  sang  that  in 
the  square  the  night  before  El-Maghrib.  By  the 
way,  1  wonder  how  many  of  the  chorus  are  alive 
to-night,"  said  Dick. 

Torpenhow  considered  for  a  minute.  "By 
Jove!  I  believe  only  you  and  I.  Raynor,  Vick- 
ery  and  Deenes — all  dead  ;  Vincent  caught  small- 
pox in  Cairo,  carried  it  here  and  died  of  it.  Yes, 
only  you  and  I  and  the  Nilghai." 

"  Umph!  And  yet  the  men  here  who've  done 
their  work  in  a  well-warmed  studio  all  their 
lives,  with  a  policeman  at  each  corner,  say  that  I 
charge  too  much  for  my  pictures." 

"They  are  buying  your  work,  not  your  insur- 
ance policies,  dear  child,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"  I  gambled  with  one  to  get  at  the  other.  Don't 
preach.  Go  on  with  the  '  Pilot.'  Where  in  the 
world  did  you  get  that  song  ?  " 

"  On  a  tombstone,"  said  the  Nilghai.  "  On  a 
tombstone  in  a  distant  land.  I  made  it  an  ac- 
companiment with  heaps  of  bass  chords." 

"Oh,  Vanity!  Begin."  And  the  Nilghai  be- 
gan— 


166  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  I  have  slipped  my  cable,  messmates,  I'm  drifting  down  with 

the  tide, 
I  have  my  sailing  orders,  while  ye  at  anchor  ride.  # 

And  never  on  fair  June  morning  have  I  put  out  to  sea 
With  clearer  conscience  or  better  hope,  or  a  heart  more  light 

and  free. 

"Shoulder  to  shoulder,  Joe,  my  boy,  into  the  crowd  like  a 

wedge 
Strike  with  the  hangers,  messmates,  but  do  not  cut  with  the  edge. 
Cries  Charnock,  « Scatter  the  fagots,  double  that  Brahmin  in 

two, 
The  tall  pale  widow  for  me,  Joe,  the  little  brown  girl  for  you  ! ' 

"  Young  Joe  (you're  nearing  sixty),  why  is  your  hide  so  dark  ? 
Katie  has  soft  fair  blue  eyes,  who  blackened  yours  ? — Why, 
hark!" 

They  were  all  singing  now,  Dick  with  the  roar 
of  the  wind  of  the  open  sea  about  his  ears  as  the 
deep  bass  voice  let  itself  go. 

"  The  morning  gun — Ho,  steady ! — the  arquebuses  to  me ! 
I  ha'  sounded  the  Dutch  High  Admiral's  heart  as  my  lead  doth 
sound  the  sea. 

"  Sounding,  sounding  the  Ganges,  floating  down  with  the  tide, 
Moor  me  close  to  Charnock,  next  to  my  nut-brown  bride. 
My  blessing  to  Kate  at  Fairlight — Holwell,  my  thanks  to  you ; 
Steady !     We  steer  for  Heaven,  through  sand-drifts  cold  and 
blue." 

"  Now  what  is  there  in  that  nonsense  to  make 
a  man  restless  ?  "  said  Dick,  hauling  Binkie  from 
his  feet  to  his  chest 


The  Light  that  Failed  167 

"  It  depends  on  the  man,"  said  Torpenhow. 

"  The  man  who  has  been  down  to  look  at  the 
sea,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"  I  didn't  know  she  was  going  to  upset  me  in 
this  fashion." 

"That's  what  men  say  when  they  go  to  say 
good-bye  to  a  woman.  It's  more  easy  though  to 
get  rid  of  three  women  than  a  piece  of  one's  life 
and  surroundings." 

"  But  a  woman  can  be  " — began  Dick,  unguard- 
edly. 

"A  piece  of  one's  life,"  continued  Torpenhow. 
"No,  she  can't."  His  face  darkened  for  a  mo- 
ment. "She  says  she  wants  to  sympathize  with 
you  and  help  you  in  your  work,  and  everything 
else  that  clearly  a  man  must  do  for  himself. 
Then  she  sends  round  five  notes  a  day  to  ask 
why  the  dickens  you  haven't  been  wasting  your 
time  with  her." 

"  Don't  generalize,"  said  the  Nilghai.  "  By  the 
time  you  arrive  at  five  notes  a  day  you  must  have 
gone  through  a  good  deal  and  behaved  accord- 
ingly.    'Shouldn't  begin  these  things,  my  son." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  gone  down  to  the  sea,"  said 
Dick,  just  a  little  anxious  to  change  the  conversa- 
tion.    "  And  you  shouldn't  have  sung." 

"The  sea  isn't  sending  you  five  notes  a  day," 
said  the  Nilghai. 

"No,  but  I'm  fatally  compromised-    She's  an 


1 68  The  Light  that  Failed 

enduring  old  hag,  and  I'm  sorry  I  ever  met  her. 
Why  wasn't  I  born  and  bred  and  dead  in  a  three- 
pair  back?" 

"Hear  him  blaspheming  his  first  love!  Why 
in  the  world  shouldn't  you  listen  to  her  ?  "  said 
Torpenhow. 

Before  Dick  could  reply  the  Nilghai  lifted  up 
his  voice  with  a  shout  that  shook  the  windows, 
in  "The  Men  of  the  Sea,"  that  begins,  as  all 
know,  "The  sea  is  a  wicked  old  woman,"  and 
after  racing  through  eight  lines  whose  imagery  is 
truthful,  ends  in  a  refrain,  slow  as  the  clacking  of 
a  capstan  when  the  boat  comes  unwillingly  up 
to  the  bars  where  the  men  sweat  and  tramp  in 
the  shingle. 

i 

" »  Ye  that  bore  us,  O  restore  us ! 
She  is  kinder  than  ye ; 
For  the  call  is  on  our  heart-strings ! ' 
Said  The  Men  of  the  Sea." 

The  Nilghai  sang  that  verse  twice,  with  simple 
craft,  intending  that  Dick  should  hear.  But  Dick 
was  waiting  for  the  farewell  of  the  men  to  their 
wives. 

**  *  Ye  that  love  us,  can  ye  move  us  ? 
She  is  dearer  than  ye  ; 
And  your  sleep  will  be  the  sweeter/ 
Said  The  Men  of  the  Sea." 


The  Light  that  Failed  169 

The  rough  words  beat  like  the  blows  of  the 
waves  on  the  bows  of  the  rickety  boat  from  Lima 
In  the  days  when  Dick  was  mixing  paints,  mak- 
ing love,  drawing  devils  and  angels  in  the  half 
dark,  and  wondering  whether  the  next  minute 
would  place  the  Italian  captain's  knife  between 
his  shoulder-blades.  And  the  go-fever,  which  is 
more  real  than  many  doctors'  diseases,  waked 
and  raged,  urging  him  who  loved  Maisie  beyond 
anything  in  the  world,  to  go  away  and  taste  the 
old  hot,  unregenerate  life  again,— to  scuffle, 
swear,  gamble,  and  love  light  loves  with  his  fel- 
lows; to  take  ship  and  know  the  sea  once  more, 
and  by  her  beget  pictures ;  to  talk  to  Binat  among 
the  sands  of  Port  Said  while  Yellow  'Tina  mixed 
the  drinks;  to  hear  the  crackle  of  musketry,  and 
see  the  smoke  roll  outward,  thin  and  thicken  again 
till  the  shining  black  faces  came  through,  and  in 
that  hell  every  man  was  strictly  responsible  for 
his  own  head,  and  his  own  alone,  and  struck 
with  an  unfettered  arm.  It  was  impossible,  ut- 
terly impossible,  but  — 

a'Oh,  our  fathers,  in  the  churchyard, 
She  is  older  than  ye, 
And  our  graves  will  be  the  greener,' 
Said  The  Men  of  the  Sea." 

"What  is  there  to  hinder?"  said  Torpenhow, 
in  the  long  hush  that  followed  the  song. 


170  The  Light  that  Failed 

"You  said  a  little  time  since  that  you  wouldn't 
come  for  a  walk  round  the  world,  Torp." 

"That  was  months  ago,  and  I  only  objected 
to  your  making  money  for  traveling  expenses. 
You've  shot  your  bolt  here  and  it  has  gone  home. 
Go  away  and  do  some  work,  and  see  some 
things." 

"  Get  some  of  the  fat  off  you;  you're  disgrace- 
fully out  of  condition,"  said  the  Nilghai,  making 
a  plunge  from  the  chair  and  grasping  a  handful 
of  Dick  generally  over  the  right  ribs.  "  Soft  as 
putty — pure  tallow  born  of  over-feeding.  Train 
it  off,  Dickie." 

"We're  all  equally  gross,  Nilghai.  Next  time 
you  have  to  take  the  field  you'll  sit  down,  wink 
your  eyes,  gasp,  and  die  in  a  fit." 

"Never  mind.  You  go  away  on  a  ship.  Go 
to  Lima  again,  or  to  Brazil.  There's  always 
trouble  in  South  America." 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  want  to  be  told  where  to 
go?  Great  Heavens,  the  only  difficulty  is  to 
know  where  I'm  to  stop.  But  I  shall  stay  here, 
as  I  told  you  before." 

"Then  you'll  be  buried  in  Kensal  Green  and 
turn  into  adipocere  with  the  others,"  said  Tor- 
penhow.  "  Are  you  thinking  of  commissions  in 
hand?  Pay  forfeit  and  go.  You've  money 
enough  to  travel  as  a  king  if  you  please." 

"You've  the  grisliest  notions  of  amusement, 


The  Light  that  Failed  171 

Torp.  I  think  I  see  myself  shipping  first  class 
on  a  six-thousand-ton  hotel,  and  asking  the  third 
engineer  what  makes  the  engines  go  rounds  and 
whether  it  isn't  very  warm  in  the  stokehold.  Ho! 
ho!  I  should  ship  as  a  loafer  if  ever  I  shipped  at 
all,  which  I'm  not  going  to  do.  I  shall  com- 
promise, and  go  for  a  small  trip  to  begin  with." 

"That's  something  at  any  rate.  Where  will 
you  go?"  said  Torpenhow.  " It  would  do  you 
all  the  good  in  the  world,  old  man." 

The  Nilghai  saw  the  twinkle  in  Dick's  eye  and 
refrained  from  speech. 

"  I  shall  go  in  the  first  place  to  Rathray's  stable, 
where  I  shall  hire  one  horse,  and  take  him  very 
carefully  as  far  as  Richmond  Hill.  Then  I  shall 
walk  him  back  again,  in  case  he  should  acciden- 
tally burst  into  a  lather  and  make  Rathray  angry. 
1  shall  do  that  to-morrow,  for  the  sake  of  air  and 
exercise." 

"Bah!"  Dick  had  barely  time  to  throw  up 
his  arm  and  ward  off  the  cushion  that  the  dis- 
gusted Torpenhow  heaved  at  his  head. 

"Air  and  exercise  indeed,"  said  the  Nilghai, 
sitting  down  heavily  on  Dick.  "  Let's  give  him 
a  little  of  both.    Get  the  bellows,  Torp." 

At  this  point  the  conference  broke  up  in  disor- 
der, because  Dick  would  not  open  his  mouth  till 
the  Nilghai  held  his  nose  fast,  and  there  was  some 
trouble  in  forcing  the  nozzle  of  the  bellows  be- 


172  The  Light  that  Failed 

tween  his  teeth;  and  even  when  it  was  there  he 
weakly  tried  to  puff  against  the  force  of  the 
blast,  and  his  cheeks  blew  up  with  a  great  ex- 
plosion; and  the  enemy  becoming  helpless  with 
laughter  he  so  beat  them  over  the  head  with  a 
soft  sofa-cushion  that  that  became  unsewn  and 
distributed  its  feathers,  and  Binkie,  interfering 
in  Torpenhow's  interests,  was  bundled  into  the 
half-empty  bag  and  advised  to  scratch  his  way 
out,  which  he  did  after  a  while,  traveling  rapidly 
up  and  down  the  floor  in  the  shape  of  an  agitated 
green  haggis,  and  when  he  came  out  looking  for 
satisfaction,  the  three  pillars  of  his  world  were 
picking  feathers  out  of  their  hair. 

"  A  prophet  has  no  honor  in  his  own  country," 
said  Dick,  ruefully,  dusting  his  knees.  "This 
filthy  fluff  will  never  brush  off  my  bags." 

"  It  was  all  for  your  good,"  said  the  Nilghai. 
"'Nothing  like  air  and  exercise." 

"All  for  your  good,"  said  Torpenhow,  not  in 
the  least  with  reference  to  past  clowning.  "  It 
would  let  you  focus  things  at  their  proper  worth 
and  prevent  your  becoming  slack  in  this  hot- 
house of  a  town.  Indeed  it  would,  old  man.  I 
shouldn't  have  spoken  if  I  hadn't  thought  so. 
Only,  you  make  a  joke  of  everything." 

"Before  God  I  do  no  such  thing,"  said  Dick, 
quickly  and  earnestly.  "You  don't  know  me  if 
you  think  that." 


The  Light  that  Failed  173 

"/don't  think  it,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"  How  can  fellows  like  ourselves,  who  know 
what  life  and  death-  really  mean,  dare  to  make  a 
joke  of  anything?  I  know  we  pretend  it,  to  save 
ourselves  from  breaking  down  or  going  to  the 
other  extreme.  Can't  I  see,  old  man,  how  you're 
always  anxious  about  me,  and  try  to  advise  me 
to  make  my  work  better?  Do  you  suppose  I 
don't  think  about  that  myself?  But  you  can't 
help  me — you  can't  help  me — not  even  you.  I 
must  play  my  own  hand  alone  in  my  own  way." 

"Hear,  hear,"  from  the  Nilghai. 

"What's  the  one  thing  in  the  Nilghai  Saga 
that  I've  never  drawn  in  the  Nungapunga 
Book?"  Dick  continued  to  Torpenhow,  who 
was  a  little  astonished  at  the  outburst. 

Now  there  was  one  blank  page  in  the  book 
given  over  to  the  sketch  that  Dick  had  not  drawn 
of  the  crowning  exploit  in  the  Nilghai's  life; 
when  that  man,  being  young  and  forgetting  that 
his  body  and  bones  belonged  to  the  paper  that 
employed  him,  had  ridden  over  sunburned  slip- 
pery grass  in  the  rear  of  Bredow's  brigade  on  the 
day  that  the  troopers  flung  themselves  at  Can- 
robert's  artillery,  and  for  aught  they  knew  twenty 
battalions  in  front,  to  save  the  battered  24th  Ger- 
man Infantry,  to  give  time  to  decide  the  fate  of 
Vionville,  and  to  learn  ere  their  remnant  came 
back  to   Fh  vigay  that  cavalry  can  attack  and 


174  The  Light  that  Failed 

crumple  and  break  unshaken  infantry.  When- 
ever he  was  inclined  to  think  over  a  life  that 
might  have  been  better,  an  income  that  might 
have  been  larger,  and  a  soul  that  might  have 
been  considerably  cleaner,  the  Nilghai  would 
comfort  himself  with  the  thought,  "I  rode  with 
Bredow's  brigade  at  Vionville,"  and  take  heart  for 
any  lesser  battle  the  next  day  might  bring. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  very  gravely.  "I  was  al- 
ways glad  that  you  left  it  out." 

"  I  left  it  out  because  Nilghai  taught  me  what 
the  German  army  learned  then,  and  what  Schmidt 
taught  their  cavalry.  I  don't  know  German. 
What  is  it?  'Take  care  of  the  time  and  the 
dressing  will  take  care  of  itself.'  I  must  ride  my 
own  line  to  my  own  beat,  old  man." 

"  Tempo  ist  richtung.  You've  learned  your 
lesson  well,"  said  the  Nilghai.  "He  must  go 
alone.     He  speaks  truth,  Torp." 

"  Maybe  I'm  as  wrong  as  I  can  be — hideously 
wrong.  I  must  find  that  out  for  myself,  as  I  have 
to  think  things  out  for  myself,  but  I  daren't  turn 
my  head  to  dress  by  the  next  man.  It  hurts  me 
a  great  deal  more  than  you  know  not  to  be  able 
to  go,  but  I  cannot,  that's  all.  I  must  do  my  own 
work  and  live  my  own  life  in  my  own  way,  be- 
cause I'm  responsible  for  both.  Only  don't  think 
1  frivol  about  it,  Torp.  I  have  my  own  matches 
and  sulphur,  and  I'll  make  my  own  hell,  thanks." 


The  Light  that  Failed  175 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  pause.  Then 
Torpenhow  said  blandly,  "What  did  the  Gov- 
ernor of  North  Carolina  say  to  the  Governor  of 
South  Carolina  ?  " 

"  Excellent  notion.  It  is  a  long  time  between 
drinks.  There  are  the  makings  of  a  very  fine  prig 
in  you,  Dick,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"Ive  liberated  my  mind,  estimable  Binkie, 
with  the  feathers  in  his  mouth."  Dick  picked  up 
the  still  indignant  one  and  shook  him  tenderly. 
"  You're  tied  up  in  a  sack  and  made  to  run  about 
blind,  Binkie-wee,  without  any  reason,  and  it  has 
hurt  your  little  feelings.  Never  mind.  Sic  volo, 
sic  jubeo,  stet  pro  ratione  voluntas,  and  don't 
sneeze  in  my  eye  because  I  talk  Latin.  Good- 
night." 

He  went  out  of  the  room. 

"That's  distinctly  one  for  you,"  said  the  Nil- 
ghai. "  I  told  you  it  was  hopeless  to  meddle  with 
him.     He's  not  pleased." 

"  He'd  swear  at  me  if  he  weren't.  I  can't  make 
it  out.  He  has  the  go-fever  upon  him  and  he 
won't  go.  I  only  hope  that  he  mayn't  have  to 
go  some  day  when  he  doesn't  want  to,"  said  Tor- 
penhow. 


In  his  own  room  Dick  was  settling  a  question 
with  himself — and  the  question  was  whether  all 


176  The  Light  that  Failed 

the  world,  and  all  that  was  therein,  and  a  burn- 
ing desire  to  exploit  both,  was  worth  one  three- 
penny piece  thrown  into  the  Thames. 

"It  came  of  seeing  the  sea,  and  I'm  a  cur  to 
think  about  it,"  he  decided.  "  After  all  the  honey- 
moon will  be  that  tour — with  reservations  ;  only 
.  .  .  only  I  didn't  realize  that  the  sea  was  so 
strong.  I  didn't  feel  it  so  much  when  I  was  with 
Maisie.  These  damnable  songs  did  it.  He's  be- 
ginning again." 

But  it  was  only  Herrick's  Nightpiece  to  Julia 
that  the  Nilghai  sang,  and  before  it  was  ended 
Dick  reappeared  on  the  threshold,  not  altogether 
clothed  indeed,  but  in  his  right  mind,  thirsty  and 
at  peace. 

The  mood  had  come  and  gone  with  the  rising 
and  the  falling  of  the  tide  by  Fort  Keeling. 


CHAPTER  IX  • 

'*  If  I  have  taken  the  common  clay 
And  wrought  it  cunningly 
In  the  shape  of  a  god  that  was  digged  a  clod, 
The  greater  honor  to  me." 

**  If  thou  hast  taken  the  common  clay, 
.And  thy  hands  be  not  free 
From  the  taint  of  the  soil,  thou  hast  made  thy  spoil 
The  greater  shame  to  thee." 

— The  Two  Potters. 

He  did  no  work  of  any  kind  for  the  rest  of  the 
week.  Then  came  another  Sunday.  He  dreaded 
and  longed  for  the  day  always,  but  since  the  red- 
haired  girl  had  sketched  him  there  was  rather 
more  dread  than  desire  in  his  mind. 

He  found  that  Maisie  had  entirely  neglected  his 
suggestions  about  line-work.  She  had  gone  off 
at  score  filled  with  some  absurd  notion  for  a 
"fancy  head."  It  cost  Dick  something  to  com- 
mand his  temper. 

"What's  the  goou  of  suggesting  anything ? 
he  said,  pointedly. 

"Ah,  but  this  will  be  a  picture, — a  real  picture; 
177 


178  The  Light  that  Failed 

and  I  know  that  Kami  will  let  me  send  it  to  the 
Salon.    You  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

"  I  suppose  not.  But  you  won't  have  time  for 
the  Salon." 

Maisie  hesitated  a  little.  She  even  felt  uncom- 
fortable. 

"We're  going  over  to  France  a  month  sooner 
because  of  it.  I  shall  get  the  idea  sketched  out 
here  and  work  it  up  at  Kami's." 

Dick's  heart  stood  still,  and  he  came  very  near 
to  being  disgusted  with  his  queen  who  could  do 
no  wrong.  "Just  when  I  thought  I  had  made 
some  headway,  she  goes  off  chasing  butterflies. 
It's  too  maddening!" 

There  was  no  possibility  of  arguing,  for  the 
red-haired  girl  was  in  the  studio.  Dick  could 
only  look  unutterable  reproach. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "and  I  think  you  make 
a  mistake.  But  what's  the  idea  of  your  new 
picture?" 

"I  took  it  from  a  book." 

"That's  bad,  to  begin  with.  Books  aren't  the 
places  for  pictures.     And  " — 

"It's  this,"  said  the  red-haired  girl  behind  him. 
"  I  was  reading  it  to  Maisie  the  other  day  from 
The  City  of  Dreadful  Night.  D'you  know  the 
book?" 

"  A  little.  I  am  sorry  I  spoke.  There  are  pic- 
tures in  it.    What  has  taken  her  fancy  ?" 


The  Light  that  Failed  179 

"The  description  of  the  Melancolia  — 

"  Her  folded  wings  as  of  a  mighty  eagle, 
But  all  too  impotent  to  lift  the  regal 
Robustness  of  her  earth-born  strength  and  pride. 

And  here  again.     (Maisie,  get  the  tea,  dear.) 

"  The  forehead  charged  with  baleful  thoughts  and  dreams, 
The  household  bunch  of  keys,  the  housewife's  gown, 
Voluminous  indented,  and  yet  rigid 
As  though  a  shell  of  burnished  metal  frigid, 
Her  feet  thick-shod  to  tread  all  weakness  down." 

There  was  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  scorn  of 
the  lazy  voice.     Dick  winced. 

"  But  that  has  been  done  already  by  an  obscure 
artist  of  the  name  of  Dilrer,"  said  he.  "  How 
does  the  poem  run  ?  — 

■  Three  centuries  and  threescore  years  ago, 
With  phantasies  of  his  peculiar  thought. 

You  might  as  well  try  to  rewrite  Hamlet.  It  will 
be  waste  of  time." 

"No,  it  won't,"  said  Maisie,  putting  down  the 
teacups  with  clatter  to  reassure  herself.  "  And 
I  mean  to  do  it.  Can't  you  see  what  a  beautiful 
thing  it  would  make  ?" 

"  How  in  perdition  can  one  do  work  when  one 
hasn't  had  the  proper  training?  Any  fool  can 
get  a  notion.     It  needs  training  to  drive  the  thing 


180  The  Light  that  Failed 

through, — training  and  conviction;  not  rushing 
after  the  first  fancy."  Dick  spoke  between  his 
teeth. 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  Maisie.  "1 
think  I  can  do  it." 

Again  the  voice  of  the  girl  behind  him  — 

■  Baffled  and  beaten  back,  she  works  on  still ; 
Weary  and  sick  of  soul,  she  works  the  more. 
Sustained  by  her  indomitable  will, 

The  hands  shall  fashion,  and  the  brain  shall  pore. 
And  all  her  sorrow  shall  be  turned  to  labor  — 

1  fancy  Maisie  means  to  embody  herself  in  the 
picture." 

"  Sitting  on  a  throne  of  rejected  pictures  ?  No, 
1  shan't,  dear.  The  notion  in  itself  has  fascinated 
me. — Of  course  you  don't  care  for  fancy  heads, 
Dick.  I  don't  think  you  could  do  them.  You 
like  blood  and  bones." 

"  That's  a  direct  challenge.  If  you  can  do  a 
Melancolia  that  isn't  merely  a  sorrowful  female 
head,  I  can  do  a  better  one;  and  I  will,  too. 
What  d'you  know  about  Melancolias  ? "  Dick 
firmly  believed  that  he  was  even  then  tasting 
three-quarters  of  all  the  sorrow  in  the  world. 

"She  was  a  woman,"  said  Maisie,  "and  she 
suffered  a  great  deal, — till  she  could  suffer  no 
more.  Then  she  began  to  laugh  at  it  all,  and 
then  1  painted  her  and  sent  her  to  the  Salon." 


r 


The  Light  that  Failed  181 

The  red-haired  girl  rose  up  and  left  the  room, 
laughing. 

Dick  looked  at  Maisie  humbly  and  hopelessly. 

"Never  mind  about  the  picture,"  he  said. 
"  Are  you  really  going  back  to  Kami's  a  month 
before  your  time  ?  " 

"  I  must,  if  I  want  to  get  the  picture  done." 

"  And  that's  all  you  want  ?  " 

"Of  course.     Don't  be  stupid,  Dick." 

"You  haven't  the  power.  You  have  only  the 
ideas — the  ideas  and  the  little  cheap  impulses. 
How  you  could  have  kept  at  your  work  for  ten 
years  steadily  is  a  mystery  to  me.  So  you  are 
really  going, — a  month  before  you  need  ?  " 

"  I  must  do  my  work." 

"Your  work— bah!  ...  No,  I  didn't 
mean  that.  It's  all  right,  dear.  Of  course  you 
must  do  your  work,  and — I  think  I'll  say  good- 
bye for  this  week." 

"  Won't  you  even  stay  for  tea  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you.  Have  I  your  leave  to  go, 
dear?  There's  nothing  more  you  particularly 
want  me  to  do,  and  the  line-work  doesn't  matter." 

"  I  wish  you  could  stay,  and  then  we  could 
talk  over  my  picture.  If  only  one  single  picture's 
a  success  it  draws  attention  to  all  the  others.  1 
know  some  of  my  work  is  good,  if  only  people 
could  see.  And  you  needn't  have  been  so  rude 
about  it" 


1 8s  The  Light  that  Failed 

"I'm  sorry.  We'll  talk  the  Melancolia  over 
some  one  of  the  other  Sundays.  There  are  four 
more — yes,  one,  two,  three,  four — before  you  go. 
Good-bye,  Maisie." 

Maisie  stood  by  the  studio  window,  thinking, 
till  the  red-haired  girl  returned,  a  little  white  at 
the  corners  of  her  lips. 

"Dick's  gone  off,"  said  Maisie.  "Just  when  I 
wanted  to  talk  about  the  picture.  Isn't  it  selfish 
of  him?" 

Her  companion  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  speak, 
shut  them  again,  and  went  on  reading  The  City 
of  Dreadful  Night. 

Dick  was  in  the  Park,  walking  round  and  round 
a  tree  that  he  had  chosen  as  his  confidante  for  many 
Sundays  past.  He  was  swearing  audibly,  and 
when  he  found  that  the  infirmities  of  the  English 
tongue  hemmed  in  his  rage,  he  sought  consola- 
tion in  Arabic,  which  is  expressly  designed  for 
the  use  of  the  afflicted.  He  was  not  pleased  with 
the  reward  of  his  patient  service;  nor  was  he 
pleased  with  himself;  and  it  was  long  before  he 
arrived  at  the  proposition  that  the  queen  could  do 
no  wrong. 

"It's  a  losing  game,"  he  said.  "I'm  worth 
nothing  when  a  whim  of  hers  is  in  question. 
But  in  a  losing  game  at  Port  Said  we  used  to 
double  the  stakes  and  go  on.  She  do  a  Melan- 
colia!   She  hasn't  the  power,  or  the  insight,  or 


The  Light  that  Failed  183 

the  training.  Only  the  desire.  She's  cursed 
with  the  curse  of  Reuben.  She  won't  do  line- 
work,  because  it  means  real  work;  and  yet  she's 
stronger  than  I  am.  I'll  make  her  understand 
that  I  can  beat  her  on  her  own  Melancolia.  Even 
then  she  wouldn't  care.  She  says  I  can  only  do 
blood  and  bones.  I  don't  believe  she  has  blood 
in  her  veins.  All  the  same  I  love  her;  and  I  must 
go  on  loving  her;  and  if  I  can  humble  her  in- 
ordinate vanity  I  will.  I'll  do  a  Melancolia  that 
shall  be  something  like  a  Melancolia, — '  the  Mel- 
ancolia that  transcends  all  wit.'  I'll  do  it  at  once, 
con — bless  her." 

He  discovered  that  the  notion  would  not  come 
to  order,  and  that  he  could  not  free  his  mind  for 
an  hour  from  the  thought  of  Maisie's  departure. 
He  took  very  small  interest  in  her  rough  studies 
for  the  Melancolia  when  she  showed  them  next 
week.  The  Sundays  were  racing  past,  and  the 
time  was  at  hand  when  all  the  church  bells  in 
London  could  not  ring  Maisie  back  to  him.  Once 
or  twice  he  said  something  to  Binkie  about 
"  hermaphroditic  futilities,"  but  the  little  dog  re- 
ceived so  many  confidences  both  from  Torpen- 
how  and  Dick  that  he  did  not  trouble  his  tulip- 
ears  to  listen. 

Dick  was  permitted  to  see  the  girls  off.  They 
were  going  by  the  Dover  night-boat;  and  they 
hoped  to  return  in  August.    It  was  then  February, 


184  The  Light  that  Failed 

and  Dick  felt  that  he  was  being  hardly  used. 
Maisie  was  so  busy  stripping  the  small  house 
across  the  Park,  and  packing  her  canvases,  that 
she  had  no  time  for  thought.  Dick  went  down 
to  Dover  and  wasted  a  day  there  fretting  over  a 
wonderful  possibility.  Would  Maisie  at  the  very 
last  allow  him  one  small  kiss  ?  He  reflected  that 
he  might  capture  her  by  the  strong  arm,  as  he 
had  seen  women  captured  in  the  Southern  Soudan, 
and  lead  her  away;  but  Maisie  would  never  be 
led.  She  would  turn  her  grey  eyes  upon  him  and 
say,  "Dick,  how  selfish  you  are!"  Then  his 
courage  would  fail  him.  It  would  be  better,  after 
all,  to  beg  for  that  kiss. 

Maisie  looked  more  than  usually  kissable  as  she 
stepped  from  the  night-mail  on  to  the  windy 
pier,  in  a  grey  waterproof  and  a  little  grey  cloth 
traveling-cap.  The  red-haired  girl  was  not  so 
lovely.  Her  green  eyes  were  hollow  and  her  lips 
were  dry.  Dick  saw  the  trunks  aboard,  and  went 
to  Maisie's  side  in  the  darkness  under  the  bridge. 
The  mail-bags  were  thundering  into  the  forehold, 
and  the  red-haired  girl  was  watching  them. 

"You'll  have  a  rough  passage  to-night,"  said 
Dick.  "It's  blowing  outside.  I  suppose  I  may 
come  over  and  see  you  if  I'm  good  ?  " 

"You  mustn't.  I  shall  be  busy.  At  least,  if  I 
want  you  I'll  send  for  you.  But  I  shall  write 
from  Vitry-sur-Marne.     I    shall  have   heaps  of 


The  Light  that  Failed  185 

things  to  consult  you  about.  Oh,  Dick,  you 
have  been  so  good  to  me! — so  good  to  me!  " 

"Thank  you  for  that,  dear.  It  hasn't  made  any 
difference,  has  it?" 

"I  can't  tell  a  fib.  It  hasn't — in  that  way. 
But  don't  think  I'm  not  grateful." 

"Damm  the  gratitude!"  said  Dick,  huskily,  to 
the  paddle-box. 

"What's  the  use  of  worrying?  You  know  1 
should  ruin  your  life,  and  you'd  ruin  mine,  as 
things  are  now.  You  remember  what  you  said 
when  you  were  so  angry  that  day  in  the  Park  ? 
One  of  us  has  to  be  broken.  Can't  you  wait  till 
that  day  comes  ?  " 

"No,  love.  I  want  you  unbroken — all  to  my- 
self." 

Maisie  shook  her  head.  "  My  poor  Dick,  what 
can  I  say  ?  " 

"Don't  say  anything.  Give  me  a  kiss  ?  Only 
one  kiss,  Maisie.  I'll  swear  I  won't  take  any 
more.  You  might  as  well,  and  then  I  can  be  sure 
you're  grateful." 

Maisie  put  her  cheek  forward,  and  Dick  took 
his  reward  in  the  darkness.  It  was  only  one 
kiss,  but,  since  there  was  no  time-limit  specified, 
it  was  a  long  one.  Maisie  wrenched  herself  free 
angrily,  and  Dick  stood  abashed  and  tingling 
from  head  to  heel. 

"Good-bye,  darling.    I  didn't  mean  to  scare 


l86  The  Light  that  Failed 

you.  I'm  sorry.  Only — keep  well  and  do  good 
work, — specially  the  Melancolia.  I'm  going  to 
do  one,  too.  Remember  me  to  Kami,  and  be  care- 
ful what  you  drink.  Country  drinking-water  is 
bad  everywhere,  but  it's  worse  in  France.  Write 
to  me  if  you  want  anything,  and  good-bye.  Say 
good-bye  to  the  what-you-call-um  girl,  and — 
can't  I  have  another  kiss?  No.  You're  quite 
right.     Good-bye." 

A  shout  told  him  that  it  was  not  seemly  to 
charge  up  the  mail-bag  incline.  He  reached  the 
pier  as  the  steamer  began  to  move  off,  and  he 
followed  her  with  his  heart. 

"And  there's  nothing — nothing  in  the  wide 
world — to  keep  us  apart  except  her  obstinacy. 
These  Calais  night-boats  are  much  too  small. 
I'll  get  Torp  to  write  to  the  papers  about  it. 
She's  beginning  to  pitch  already." 

Maisie  stood  where  Dick  had  left  her  till  she 
heard  a  little  gasping  cough  at  her  elbow.  The 
red-haired  girl's  eyes  were  alight  with  cold 
flame. 

"  He  kissed  you! "  she  said.  "  How  could  you 
let  him,  when  he  wasn't  anything  to  you  ?  How 
dared  you  take  a  kiss  from  him  !  Oh,  Maisie, 
let's  go  to  the  ladies'  cabin.  I'm  sick, — deadly 
sick." 

"We  aren't  into  open  water  yet.  Go  down, 
dear,  and  I'll  stay  here.     I  don't  like  the  smell  of 


The  Light  that  Failed  187 

the  engines.  .  .  .  Poor  Dick!  He  deserved 
one, — only  one.  But  I  didn't  think  he'd  frighten 
me  so." 

Dick  returned  to  town  next  day  just  in  time 
for  lunch,  for  which  he  had  telegraphed.  To 
his  disgust,  there  were  only  empty  plates  in  the 
studio.  He  lifted  up  his  voice  like  the  bears  in 
the  fairy-tale,  and  Torpenhow  entered,  looking 
very  guilty. 

"  H'sh! "  said  he.  "  Don't  make  such  a  noise. 
I  took  it.  Come  into  my  rooms,  and  I'll  show 
you  why." 

Dick  paused  amazed  at  the  threshold,  for  on 
Torpenhow's  sofa  lay  a  girl  asleep  and  breathing 
heavily.  The  little  cheap  sailor-hat,  the  blue- 
and-white  dress,  fitter  for  June  than  for  February, 
dabbled  with  mud  at  the  skirts,  the  jacket  trimmed 
with  imitation  Astrakhan  and  ripped  at  the 
shoulder-seams,  the  one-and-elevenpenny  um- 
brella, and,  above  all,  the  disgraceful  condition  of 
the  kid-topped  boots,  declared  all  things. 

"Oh,  I  say,  old  man,  this  is  too  bad!  You 
mustn't  bring  this  sort  up  here.  They  steal 
things  from  the  rooms." 

"It  looks  bad,  I  admit,  but  I  was  coming  in 
after  lunch,  and  she  staggered  into  the  hall.  I 
thought  she  was  drunk  at  first,  but  it  was  col- 
lapse. I  couldn't  leave  her  as  she  was,  so  I 
brought  her  up  here  and  gave  her  your  lunch. 


1 88  The  Light  that  Failed 

She  was  fainting  from  want  of  food.  She  went 
fast  asleep  the  minute  she  had  finished." 

"I  know  something  of  that  complaint.  She's 
been  living  on  sausages,  I  suppose.  Torp,  you 
should  have  handed  her  over  to  a  policeman  for 
presuming  to  faint  in  a  respectable  house.  Poor 
little  wretch!  Look  at  that  face!  There  isn't  an 
ounce  of  immorality  in  it.  Only  folly, — slack, 
fatuous,  feeble,  futile  folly.  It's  a  typical  head. 
D'you  notice  how  the  skull  begins  to  show 
through  the  flesh  padding  on  the  face  and  cheek- 
bone?" 

"  What  a  cold-blooded  barbarian  it  is!  Don't 
hit  a  woman  when  she's  down.  Can't  we  do 
anything  ?  She  was  simply  dropping  with  star- 
vation. She  almost  fell  into  my  arms,  and  when 
she  got  to  the  food  she  ate  like  a  wild  beast.  It 
was  horrible." 

"  I  can  give  her  money,  which  she  would  prob- 
ably spend  in  drinks.  Is  she  going  to  sleep  for- 
ever?" 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes  and  glared  at  trie 
men  between  terror  and  effrontery. 

"  Feeling  better  ?  "  said  Torpenhow. 

"Yes.  Thank  you.  There  aren't  many  gen- 
tlemen that  are  as  kind  as  you  are.    Thank  you." 

"When  did  you  leave  service?"  said  Dick, 
who  had  been  watching  the  scarred  and  chapped 
hands. 


The  Light  that  Failed  189 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  in  service?  I 
was.     General  servant.     I  didn't  like  it." 

"And  how  do  you  like  being  your  own  mis- 
tress ?  " 

"Do  I  look  as  if  I  liked  it?" 

"I  suppose  not.  One  moment.  Would  you 
be  good  enough  to  turn  your  face  to  the  win- 
dow?" 

The  girl  obeyed,  and  Dick  watched  her  face 
keenly, — so  keenly  that  she  made  as  if  to  hide 
behind  Torpenhow. 

"The  eyes  have  it,"  said  Dick,  walking  up  and 
down.  "  They  are  superb  eyes  for  my  business. 
And,  after  all,  every  head  depends  on  the  eyes. 
This  has  been  sent  from  heaven  to  make  up  for 
— what  was  taken  away.  Now  the  weekly 
strain's  off  my  shoulders,  I  can  get  to  work  in 
earnest.  Evidently  sent  from  heaven.  Yes. 
Raise  your  chin  a  little,  please." 

"Gently,  old  man,  gently.  You're  scaring 
somebody  out  of  her  wits,"  said  Torpenhow, 
who  could  see  the  girl  trembling. 

"Don't  let  him  hit  me!  Oh,  please  don't  let 
him  hit  me!  I've  been  hit  cruel  to-day  because  I 
spoke  to  a  man.  Don't  let  him  look  at  me  like 
that!  He's  reg'lar  wicked,  that  one.  Don't  let 
him  look  at  me  like  that,  neither!  Oh,  I  feel  as 
if  I  hadn't  nothing  on  when  he  looks  at  me  like 
that!" 


190  The  Light  that  Failed 

The  overstrained  nerves  in  the  frail  body  gave 
way,  and  the  girl  wept  like  a  little  child  and  be- 
gan to  scream.  Dick  threw  open  the  window, 
and  Torpenhow  flung  the  door  back. 

'*  There  you  are,"  said  Dick,  soothingly.  "  My 
friend  here  can  call  for  a  policeman,  and  you  can 
run  through  that  door.  Nobody  is  going  to  hurt 
you." 

The  girl  sobbed  convulsively  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  then  tried  to  laugh. 

"Nothing  in  the  world  to  hurt  you.  Now 
listen  to  me  for  a  minute.  I'm  what  they  call  an 
artist  by  profession.  You  know  what  artists 
do?" 

"  They  draw  the  things  in  red  and  black  ink  op 
the  pop-shop  labels." 

"  I  dare  say.  I  haven't  risen  to  pop-shop  labels 
yet.  Those  are  done  by  the  Academicians.  I 
want  to  draw  your  head." 

"What  for?" 

"Because  it's  pretty.  That  is  why  you  will 
come  to  the  room  across  the  landing  three  times 
a  week  at  eleven  in  the  morning,  and  I'll  give 
you  three  quid  a  week  just  for  sitting  still  and 
being  drawn.     And  there's  a  quid  on  account." 

"For  nothing?  Oh,  my!"  The  girl  turned 
the  sovereign  in  her  hand,  and  with  more  foolish 
tears;  "Ain't  neither  o'  you  two  gentlemen  afraid 
of  my  bilking  you?" 


The  Light  that  Failed  191 

"No.  Only  ugly  girls  do  that.  Try  and  re- 
member this  place.  And,  by  the  way,  what's 
your  name?" 

"I'm  Bessie, — Bessie —  It's  no  use  giving  the 
rest.  Bessie  Broke, — Stone-broke  if  you  like. 
What's  your  names  ?  But  there, — no  one  ever 
gives  the  real  ones." 

Dick  consulted  Torpenhow  with  his  eyes. 

"My  name's  Heldar,  and  my  friend's  called 
Torpenhow ;  and  you  must  be  sure  to  come  here. 
Where  do  you  live?" 

"  South-the-water, — one  room, — five  and  six- 
pence a  week.  Aren't  you  making  fun  of  me 
about  that  three  quid  ?  " 

"You'll  see  later  on.  And,  Bessie,  next  time 
you  come,  remember,  you  needn't  wear  that 
paint.  It's  bad  for  the  skin,  and  I  have  all  the 
colors  you'll  be  likely  to  need." 

Bessie  withdrew,  scrubbing  her  cheek  with  a 
ragged  pocket-handkerchief.  The  two  men 
looked  at  each  other. 

"You're  a  man,"  said  Torpenhow. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  been  a  fool.  It  isn't  our  busi- 
ness to  run  about  the  earth  reforming  Bessie 
Brokes.  And  a  woman  of  any  kind  has  no  right 
on  this  landing." 

"  Perhaps  she  won't  come  back." 

"  She  will  if  she  thinks  she  can  get  food  and 
v  armth   here.     I   know  she  will,  worse  luck 


193  The  Light  that  Failed 

But  remember,  old  man,  she  isn't  a  woman:  she's 
my  model;  and  be  careful." 

"The  idea!  She's  a  dissolute  little  scarecrow, 
— a  gutter-snippet  and  nothing  more." 

"So  you  think.  Wait  till  she  has  been  fed  a 
little  and  freed  from  fear.  That  fair  type  recovers 
itself  very  quickly.  You  won't  know  her  in  a 
week  or  two,  when  that  abject  fear  has  died  out 
of  her  eyes.  She'll  be  too  happy  and  smiling  for 
my  purposes." 

"  But  surely  you're  taking  her  out  of  charity  ? 
— to  please  me  ?  " 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  playing  with  hot 
coals  to  please  anybody.  She  has  been  sent  from 
heaven,  as  I  may  have  remarked  before,  to  help 
me  with  my  Melancolia." 

"Never  heard  a  word  about  the  lady  before." 

"What's  the  use  of  having  a  friend,  if  you 
must  sling  your  notions  at  him  in  words  ?  You 
ought  to  know  what  I'm  thinking  about.  You've 
heard  me  grunt  lately  ?  " 

"Even  so;  but  grunts  mean  anything  in  your 
language,  from  bad  'baccy  to  wicked  dealers. 
And  I  don't  think  I've  been  much  in  your  confi- 
dence for  some  time." 

"It  was  a  high  and  soulful  grunt.  You  ought 
to  have  understood  that  it  meant  the  Melancolia." 
Dick  walked  Torpenhow  up  and  down  the  room, 
keeping  silence.    Then  he  smote  him  in  the  ribs 


The  Light  that  Failed  193 

"  Now  don't  you  see  it  ?  Bessie's  abject  futility, 
and  the  terror  in  her  eyes,  welded  on  to  one  or  two 
details  in  the  way  of  sorrow  that  have  come  un- 
der my  experience  lately.  Likewise  some  orange 
and  black, — two  keys  of  each.  But  I  can't  ex- 
plain on  an  empty  stomach." 

**  It  sounds  mad  enough.  You'd  better  stick 
to  your  soldiers,  Dick,  instead  of  maundering 
about  heads  and  eyes  and  experiences." 

"Think  so?"  Dick  began  to  dance  on  his 
heels,  singing  — 

■  They're  as  proud  as  a  turkey  when  they  hold  the  ready 
cash, 
You  ought  to  'ear  the  way  they  laugh  an'  joke ; 
They  are  tricky  an'  they're  funny  when  they've  got  the  ready 
money, — 
Ow !  but  see  'em  when  they're  all  stone-broke." 

Then  he  sat  down  to  pour  out  his  heart  to  Maisie 
in  a  four-sheet  letter  of  counsel  and  encourage- 
ment, and  registered  an  oath  that  he  would  get 
to  work  with  an  undivided  heart  as  soon  as 
Bessie  should  reappear. 

The  girl  kept  her  appointment  unpainted  and 
unadorned,  afraid  and  overbold  by  turns.  When 
she  found  that  she  was  merely  expected  to  sit 
still,  she  grew  calmer,  and  criticised  the  appoint- 
ments of  the  studio  with  freedom  and  some 
point.     She  liked  the  warmth  and  the  comfort 


1 94  The  Light  that  Failed 

and  the  release  from  fear  of  physical  pain.  Dick 
made  two  or  three  studies  of  her  head  in  mono- 
chrome, but  the  actual  notion  of  the  Melancolia 
would  not  arrive. 

"  What  a  mess  you  keep  your  things  in! "  said 
Bessie,  some  days  later,  when  she  felt  herself 
thoroughly  at  home.  "  I  s'pose  your  clothes  are 
just  as  bad.  Gentlemen  never  think  what  but- 
tons and  tape  are  made  for." 

"I  buy  things  to  wear,  and  wear  'em  till  they 
go  to  pieces.  I  don't  know  what  Torpenhow 
does." 

Bessie  made  diligent  inquiry  in  the  latter's 
room,  and  unearthed  a  bale  of  disreputable 
socks.  "Some  of  these  I'll  mend  now,"  she 
said,  "and  some  I'll  take  home.  D'you  know, 
I  sit  all  day  long  at  home  doing  nothing,  just  like 
a  lady,  and  no  more  noticing  them  other  girls  in 
the  house  than  if  they  was  so  many  flies?  I 
don't  have  any  unnecessary  words,  but  I  put  'em 
down  quick,  I  can  tell  you,  when  they  talk  to 
me.  No;  it's  quite  nice  these  days.  I  lock  my 
door,  and  they  can  only  call  me  names  through 
the  keyhole,  and  I  sit  inside,  just  like  a  lady, 
mending  socks.  Mr.  Torpenhow  wears  his 
socks  out  both  ends  at  once." 

"Three  quid  a  week  from  me,  and  the  delights 
of  my  society.  No  socks  mended.  Nothing 
from  Torp  except  a  nod  on  the  landing  now  and 


The  Light  that  Failed  195 

again,  and  all  his  socks  mended.  Bessie  is  very 
much  a  woman,"  thought  Dick;  and  he  looked  at 
her  between  half-shut  eyes.  Food  and  rest  had 
transformed  the  girl,  as  Dick  knew  they  would. 

"What  are  you  looking  at  me  like  that  for?" 
she  said,  quickly.  "Don't.  You  look  reg'lar  bad 
when  you  look  that  way.  You  don't  think  much 
0'  me,  do  you?" 

"That  depends  on  how  you  behave." 

Bessie  behaved  beautifully.  Only  it  was  diffi- 
cult at  the  end  of  ,a  sitting  to  bid  her  go  out  into 
the  grey  streets.  She  very  much  preferred  the 
studio  and  a  big  chair  by  the  stove,  with  some 
socks  in  her  lap  as  an  excuse  for  delay.  Then 
Torpenhow  would  come  in,  and  Bessie  would  be 
moved  to  tell  strange  and  wonderful  stories  of 
her  past,  and  still  stranger  ones  of  her  present 
improved  circumstances.  She  would  make  them 
tea  as  though  she  had  a  right  to  make  it;  and 
once  or  twice  on  these  occasions  Dick  caught 
Torpenhow's  eyes  fixed  on  the  trim  little  figure, 
and  because  Bessie's  flittings  about  the  room 
made  Dick  ardently  long  for  Maisie,  he  realized 
whither  Torpenhow's  thoughts  were  tending. 
And  Bessie  was  exceedingly  careful  of  the  con- 
dition of  Torpenhow's  linen.  She  spoke  very 
little  to  him,  but  sometimes  they  talked  together 
on  the  landing. 

"I  was  a  great  fool,"  Dick  said  to  himself. 


196  The  Light  that  Failed 

"I  know  what  red  firelight  looks  like  when  a 
man's  trampling  through  a  strange  town;  and 
ours  is  a  lonely,  selfish  sort  of  life  at  the  best.  I 
wonder  Maisie  doesn't  feel  that  sometimes.  But 
I  can't  order  Bessie  away.  That's  the  worst  of 
beginning  things.  One  never  knows  where  they 
stop." 

One  evening,  after  a  sitting  prolonged  to  the 
last  limit  of  the  light,  Dick  was  roused  from  a 
nap  by  a  broken  voice  in  Torpenhow's  room. 
He  jumped  to  his  feet.  "Now  what  ought  I  to 
do  ?  It  looks  foolish  to  go  in. — Oh,  bless  you, 
Binkie!"  The  little  terrier  thrust  Torpenhow's 
door  open  with  his  nose  and  came  out  to  take 
possession  of  Dick's  chair.  The  door  swung 
wide  unheeded,  and  Dick  across  the  landing 
could  see  Bessie  in  the  half-light  making  her 
little  supplication  to  Torpenhow.  She  was 
kneeling  by  his  side,  and  her  hands  were  clasped 
across  his  knee. 

"  I  know,— I  know,"  she  said,  thickly.  "  Tisn't 
right  o'  me  to  do  this,  but  I  can't  help  it;  and  you 
were  so  kind, — so  kind;  and  you  never  took  any 
notice  o'  me.  And  I've  mended  all  your  things 
so  carefully, — I  did.  Oh,  please,  'tisn't  as  if  i 
was  asking  you  to  marry  me.  I  wouldn't  think 
of  it.  But  cou — couldn't  you  take  and  live  with 
me  till  Miss  Right  comes  along?  I'm  only  Miss 
Wrong,  I  know,  but  I'd  work  my  hands  to  the 


The  Light  that  Failed  197 

bare  bone  for  you.  And  I'm  not  ugly  to  look  at. 
Say  you  will?" 

Dick  hardly  recognized  Torpenhow's  voice  in 
reply  — 

"  But  look  here.  It's  no  use.  I'm  liable  to  be 
ordered  off  anywhere  at  a  minute's  notice  if  a 
war  breaks  out.    At  a  minute's  notice — dear." 

"  What  does  that  matter?  Until  you  go,  then. 
Until  you  go.  Tisn't  much  I'm  asking,  and — 
you  don't  know  how  good  I  can  cook."  She 
had  put  an  arm  round  his  neck  and  was  draw- 
ing his  head  down. 

"  Until— I— go,  then." 

"Torp,"  said  Dick  across  the  landing.  He 
could  hardly  steady  his  voice.  "Come  here  a 
minute,  old  man.  I'm  in  trouble." — "Heaven 
send  he'll  listen  to  me!"  There  was  something 
very  like  an  oath  from  Bessie's  lips.  She  was 
afraid  of  Dick,  and  disappeared  down  the  staircase 
in  panic,  but  it  seemed  an  age  before  Torpenhow 
entered  the  studio.  He  went  to  the  mantelpiece, 
buried  his  head  on  his  arms,  and  groaned  like  a 
wounded  bull. 

"What  the  devil  right  have  you  to  interfere?" 
he  said,  at  last. 

"Who's  interfering  with  which?  Your  own 
sense  told  you  long  ago  you  couldn't  be  such  a 
fool.  It  was  a  tough  rack,  St  Anthony,  but 
you're  all  right  now." 


198  The  Light  that  Failed 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  seen  her  moving  about 
these  rooms  as  if  they  belonged  to  her.  That's 
what  upset  me.  It  gives  a  lonely  man  a  sort  of 
hankering,  doesn't  it?"  said  Torpenhow,  pit- 
eously. 

"Now  you  talk  sense.  It  does.  But,  since 
you  aren't  in  a  condition  to  discuss  the  disadvan- 
tages of  double  housekeeping,  do  you  know  what 
you're  going  to  do  ?" 

"I  don't.     I  wish  I  did." 

"  You're  going  away  for  a  season  on  a  brilliant 
tour  to  regain  tone.  You're  going  to  Brighton, 
or  Scarborough,  or  Prawle  Point,  to  see  the 
ships  go  by.  And  you're  going  at  once.  Isn't  it 
odd?  I'll  take  care  of  Binkie,  but  out  you  go 
immediately.  Never  resist  the  devil.  He  holds 
the  bank.    Fly  from  him.     Pack  your  things  and 

go- 

"  I  believe  you're  right.     Where  shall  I  go  ?" 

"And  you  call  yourself  a  special  correspond- 
ent!    Pack  first  and  inquire  afterward." 

An  hour  later  Torpenhow  was  despatched  into 
the  night  in  a  hansom.  "  You'll  probably  think 
of  some  place  to  go  to  while  you're  moving,"  said 
Dick.  "Go  to  Euston,  to  begin  with,  and — oh 
yes — get  drunk  to-night." 

He  returned  to  the  studio,  and  lighted  more 
candles,  for  he  found  the  room  very  dark. 

"Oh,  you  Jezebel!  you  futile  little  Jezebel! 


The  Light  that  Failed  199 

Won't  you  hate  me  to-morrow? — Binkie,  come 
here." 

Binkie  turned  over  on  his  back  on  the  hearth- 
rug, and  Dick  stirred  him  with  a  meditative  foot. 

"I  said  she  was  not  immoral.  I  was  wrong. 
She  said  she  could  cook.  That  showed  premedi- 
tated sin.  Oh,  Binkie,  if  you  are  a  man  you  will 
go  to  perdition ;  but  if  you  are  a  woman,  and  say 
that  you  can  cook,  you  will  go  to  a  much  worse 
place." 


CHAPTER  X 

What's  you  that  follows  at  my  side  ?  — 

The  foe  that  ye  must  fight,  my  lord,— 
That  hirples  swift  as  I  can  ride  ?  — 

The  shadow  of  the  night,  my  lord.— 
Then  wheel  my  horse  against  the  foe !  — 

He's  down  and  overpast,  my  lord. 
Ye  war  against  the  sunset  glow  : 

The  darkness  gathers  fast,  my  lord. 

—  The  Fight  of  Heriot's  Fora. 

"This  is  a  cheerful  life,"  said  Dick,  some  days 
later.  "Torp's  away;  Bessie  hates  me;  1  can't  get 
at  the  notion  of  the  Melancolia;  Maisie's  letters 
are  scrappy;  and  I  believe  I  have  indigestion. 
What  gives  a  man  pains  across  his  head  and  spots 
before  his  eyes,  Binkie  ?  Shall  us  take  some  liver 
pills?" 

Dick  had  just  gone  through  a  lively  scene  with 
Bessie.  She  had  for  the  fiftieth  time  reproached 
him  for  sending  Torpenhow  away.  She  explained 
her  enduring  hatred  for  Dick,  and  made  it  clear 
to  him  that  she  only  sat  for  the  sake  of  his  money. 
"And  Mr.  Torpenhow's  ten  times  a  better  man 
than  you,"  she  concluded. 

"  He  is.  That's  why  he  went  away.  /  should 
have  stayed  and  made  love  to  you." 

The  girl  sat  with  her  chin  on  her  hand,  scowl 
200 


The  Light  that  Failed  201 

ing.  "Tome!  I'd  like  to  catch  you!  Iflwasn't 
afraid  o'  being  hung  I'd  kill  you.  That's  what  I'd 
do.     D'you  believe  me?" 

Dick  smiled  wearily.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  live 
in  the  company  of  a  notion  that  will  not  work 
out,  a  fox-terrier  that  cannot  talk,  and  a  woman 
who  talks  too  much.  He  would  have  answered, 
but  at  that  moment  there  unrolled  itself  from  one 
corner  of  the  studio  a  veil,  as  it  were,  of  the  film- 
iest gauze.  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  but  the  grey 
haze  would  not  go. 

"This  is  disgraceful  indigestion.  Binkie,  we 
will  go  to  a  medicine-man.  We  can't  have  our 
eyes  interfered  with,  for  by  these  we  get  our 
bread;  also  mutton-chop  bones  for  little  dogs." 

The  doctor  was  an  affable  local  practitioner 
with  white  hair,  and  he  said  nothing  till  Dick  be- 
gan to  describe  the  grey  film  in  the  studio. 

"We  all  want  a  little  patching  and  repairing 
from  time  to  time,"  he  chirped.  "Like  a  ship, 
my  dear  sir, — exactly  like  a  ship.  Sometimes  the 
hull  is  out  of  order,  and  we  consult  the  surgeon; 
sometimes  the  rigging,  and  then  I  advise;  some- 
times the  engines,  and  we  go  to  the  brain-special- 
ist; sometimes  the  look-out  on  the  bridge  is  tired, 
and  then  we  see  an  oculist.  I  should  recommend 
you  to  see  an  oculist.  A  little  patching  and  re- 
pairing from  time  to  time  is  all  we  want.  An 
oculist,  by  all  means." 


202  The  Light  that  Failed 

Dick  sought  an  oculist, — the  best  in  London. 
He  was  certain  that  the  local  practitioner  did  not 
know  anything  about  his  trade,  and  more  certain 
that  Maisie  would  laugh  at  him  if  he  were  forced 
to  wear  spectacles. 

"I've  neglected  the  warnings  of  my  lord  the 
stomach  too  long.  Hence  these  spots  before  the 
eyes,  Binkie.     I  can  see  as  well  as  I  ever  could." 

As  he  entered  the  dark  hall  that  led  to  the  con- 
sulting-room a  man  cannoned  against  him.  Dick 
saw  the  face  as  it  hurried  out  into  the  street. 

"That's  the  writer-type.  He  has  the  same 
modeling  of  the  forehead  as  Torp.  He  looks 
very  sick.  Probably  heard  something  he  didn't 
like." 

Even  as  he  thought,  a  great  fear  came  upon 
Dick,  a  fear  that  made  him  hold  his  breath  as  he 
walked  into  the  oculist's  waiting-room,  with  the 
heavy  carved  furniture,  the  dark-green  paper,  and 
the  sober-hued  prints  on  the  wall.  He  recognized 
a  reproduction  of  one  of  his  own  sketches. 

Many  people  were  waiting  their  turn  before 
him.  His  eye  was  caught  by  a  flaming  red-and- 
gold  Christmas-carol  book.  Little  children  came 
to  that  eye-doctor,  and  they  needed  large-type 
amusement. 

"That's  idolatrous  bad  Art,"  he  said,  drawing 
the  book  toward  himself.  "From  the  anatomy 
of  the  angels,  it  has  been  made  in  Germany." 


The  Light  that  Failed  20) 

He  opened  it  mechanically,  and  there  leaped  to 
his  eyes  a  verse  printed  in  red  ink  — 

The  next  good  joy  that  Mary  had, 

It  was  the  joy  of  three, 
To  see  her  good  Son  Jesus  Christ 

Making  the  blind  to  see ; 
Making  the  blind  to  see,  good  Lord, 

And  happy  may  we  be. 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost 

To  all  eternity ! 

Dick  read  and  re-read  the  verse  till  his  turn 
came,  and  the  doctor  was  bending  above  him 
seated  in  an  armchair.  The  blaze  of  a  gas- 
microscope  in  his  eyes  made  him  wince.  The 
doctor's  hand  touched  the  scar  of  the  sword-cut 
on  Dick's  head,  and  Dick  explained  briefly  how 
he  had  come  by  it.  When  the  flame  was  re- 
moved, Dick  saw  the  doctor's  face,  and  the  fear 
came  upon  him  again.  The  doctor  wrapped 
himself  in  a  mist  of  words.  Dick  caught  allu- 
sions to  "scar,"  "frontal  bone,"  "optic  nerve," 
"extreme  caution,"  and  the  "avoidance  of 
mental  anxiety." 

"  Verdict  ?"  he  said,  faintly.  "  My  business  is 
painting,  and  I  daren't  waste  time.  What  do 
you  make  of  it?" 

Again  the  whirl  of  words,  but  this  time  they 
conveyed  a  meaning. 

"  Can  you  give  me  anything  to  drink  ?  " 


204  The  Light  that  Failed 

Many  sentences  were  pronounced  in  that  dark- 
ened room,  and  the  prisoners  often  needed  cheer- 
ing. Dick  found  a  glass  of  liquor  brandy  in  his 
hand. 

"As  far  as  I  can  gather,"  he  said,  coughing 
above  the  spirit,  "you  call  it  decay  of  the  optic 
nerve,  or  something,  and  therefore  hopeless. 
What  is  my  time-limit,  avoiding  all  strain  and 
worry  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  one  year." 

"My  God!  And  if  I  don't  take  care  of  my- 
self?" 

"  I  really  could  not  say.  One  cannot  ascertain 
the  exact  amount  of  injury  inflicted  by  the 
sword-cut.  The  scar  is  an  old  one,  and — expos- 
ure to  the  strong  light  of  the  desert,  did  you  say  ? 
— with  excessive  application  to  fine  work?  I 
really  could  not  say." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  it  has  come  without 
any  warning.  If  you  will  let  me,  I'll  sit  here  for 
a  minute,  and  then  I'll  go.  You  have  been  very 
good  in  telling  me  the  truth.  Without  any 
warning  ;  without  any  warning.     Thanks." 

Dick  went  into  the  street,  and  was  rapturously 
received  by  Binkie.  "We've  got  it  very  badly, 
little  dog!  Just  as  badly  as  we  can  get  it.  We'll 
go  to  the  Park  to  think  it  out." 

They  headed  for  a  certain  tree  that  Dick  knew 
well,  and  they  sat  down  to  think,  because  his 


The  Light  that  Failed  2°$ 

legs  were  trembling  under  him  and  there  was 
cold  fear  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 

"  How  could  it  have  come  without  any  warn- 
ing ?  It's  as  sudden  as  being  shot.  It's  the  liv- 
ing death,  Binkie.  We're  to  be  shut  up  in  the 
dark  in  one  year  if  we're  careful,  and  we  shan't 
see  anybody,  and  we  shall  never  have  anything 
we  want,  not  though  we  live  to  be  a  hundred." 
Binkie  wagged  his  tail  joyously.  "Binkie,  we 
must  think.  Let's  see  how  it  feels  to  be  blind." 
Dick  shut  his  eyes,  and  flaming  commas  and 
Catherine-wheels  floated  inside  the  lids.  Yet 
when  he  looked  across  the  Park  the  scope  of  his 
vision  was  not  contracted.  He  could  see  per- 
fectly, until  a  procession  of  slow-wheeling  fire- 
works defiled  across  his  eyeballs. 

"  Little  dorglums,  we  aren't  at  all  well.  Let's 
go  home.     If  only  Torp  were  back,  now  !  " 

But  Torpenhow  was  in  the  south  of  England, 
inspecting  dockyards  in  the  company  of  the 
Nilghai.  His  letters  were  brief  and  full  of 
mystery. 

Dick  had  never  asked  anybody  to  help  him  in 
his  joys  or  his  sorrows.  He  argued,  in  the  lone- 
liness of  the  studio,  henceforward  to  be  decorated 
with  a  film  of  grey  gauze  in  one  corner,  that,  it 
his  fate  were  blindness,  all  the  Torpenhows  in 
the  world  could  not  save  him.  "  I  can't  call  him 
off  his  trip  to  sit  down  and  sympathize  with  me. 


206  The  Light  that  Failed 

I  must  pull  through  the  business  alone,"  he  said. 
He  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  eating  his  moustache 
and  wondering  what  the  darkness  of  the  night 
would  be  like.  Then  came  to  his  mind  the 
memory  of  a  quaint  scene  in  the  Soudan.  A 
soldier  had  been  nearly  hacked  in  two  by  a 
broad-bladed  Arab  spear.  For  one  instant  the 
man  felt  no  pain.  Looking  down,  he  saw  that 
his  life-blood  was  going  from  him.  The  stupid 
bewilderment  on  his  face  was  so  intensely  comic 
that  both  Dick  and  Torpenhow,  still  panting  and 
unstrung  from  a  fight  for  life,  had  roared  with 
laughter,  in  which  the  man  seemed  as  if  he 
would  join,  but,  as  his  lips  parted  in  a  sheepish 
grin,  the  agony  of  death  came  upon  him,  and  he 
pitched  grunting  at  their  feet.  Dick  laughed 
again,  remembering  the  horror.  Jt  seemed  so 
exactly  like  his  own  case.  "  But  I  have  a  little 
more  time  allowed  me,"  he  said.  He  paced  up 
and  down  the  room,  quietly  at  first,  but  after- 
ward with  the  hurried  feet  of  fear.  It  was  as 
though  a  black  shadow  stood  at  his  elbow  and 
urged  him  to  go  forward;  and  there  were  only 
weaving  circles  and  floating  pin-dots  before  his 
eyes. 

"We  must  be  calm,  Binkie;  we  must  be 
calm."  He  talked  aloud  for  the  sake  of  distrac- 
tion. "This  isn't  nice  at  all.  What  shall  we 
do?    We    must   do   something.    Our   time  is 


The  Light  that  Failed  xrj 

short.  I  shouldn't  have  believed  that  this  morn- 
ing;  but  now  things  are  different.  Binkie, 
where  was  Moses  when  the  light  went  out  ?" 

Binkie  smiled  from  ear  to  ear,  as  a  well-bred 
terrier  should,  but  made  no  suggestion. 

"'Were  there  but  world  enough  and  time, 
This  coyness,  Binkie,  were  no  crime.  .  .  . 
But  at  my  back  I  always  hear'" —  He  wiped 
his  forehead,  which  was  unpleasantly  damp. 
"What  can  I  do?  What  can  I  do?  I  haven't 
any  notions  left,  and  I  can't  think  connectedly, 
but  I  must  do  something,  or  1  shall  go  off  my 
head." 

The  hurried  walk  recommenced,  Dick  stopping 
every  now  and  again  to  drag  forth  long-neglected 
canvases  and  old  notebooks;  for  he  turned  to 
his  work  by  instinct,  as  a  thing  that  could  not 
fail.  "You  won't  do,  and  you  won't  do,"  he 
said,  at  each  inspection.  "No  more  soldiers. 
I  couldn't  paint  'em.  Sudden  death  comes  home 
too  nearly,  and  this  is  battle  and  murder  both 
for  me." 

The  day  was  failing,  and  Dick  thought  for  a 
moment  that  the  twilight  of  the  blind  had  come 
upon  him  unawares.  "Allah  Almighty!"  he 
cried,  despairingly,  "help  me  through  the  time 
of  waiting,  and  I  won't  whine  when  my  punish- 
ment comes.  What  can  I  do  now,  before  the 
light  goes?" 


208  The  Light  that  Failed 

There  was  no  answer.  Dick  waited  till  he 
could  regain  some  sort  of  control  over  him- 
self. His  hands  were  shaking,  and  he  prided 
himself  on  their  steadiness;  he  could  feel  that  his 
lips  were  quivering,  and  the  sweat  was  running 
down  his  face.  He  was  lashed  by  fear,  driven 
forward  by  the  desire  to  get  to  work  at  once 
and  accomplish  something,  and  maddened  by 
the  refusal  of  his  brain  to  do  more  than  repeat 
the  news  that  he  was  about  to  go  blind.  "It's 
a  humiliating  exhibition,"  he  thought,  "and  I'm 
glad  Torp  isn't  here  to  see.  The  doctor  said  I 
was  to  avoid  mental  worry.  Come  here  and  let 
me  pet  you,  Binkie." 

The  little  dog  yelped  because  Dick  nearly 
squeezed  the  bark  out  of  him.  Then  he  heard 
the  man  speaking  in  the  twilight,  and,  doglike, 
understood  that  his  trouble  stood  off  from  him  — 

"Allah  is  good,  Binkie.  Not  quite  so  gentle 
as  we  could  wish,  but  we'll  discuss  that  later.  I 
think  I  see  my  way  to  it  now.  All  those  studies 
of  Bessie's  head  were  nonsense,  and  they  nearly 
brought  your  master  into  a  scrape.  I  hold  the 
notion  now  as  clear  as  crystal, — 'the  Melancolia 
that  transcends  all  wit'  There  shall  be  Maisie  in 
that  head,  because  I  shall  never  get  Maisie;  and 
Bess,  of  course,  because  she  knows  all  about 
Melancolia,  though  she  doesn't  know  she  knows; 
and  there  shall  be  some  drawing  in  it,  and  it  shall 


The  Light  that  Failed  209 

all  end  up  with  a  laugh.  That's  for  myself. 
Shall  she  giggle  or  grin?  No,  she  shall  laugh 
right  out  of  the  canvas,  and  every  man  and 
woman  that  ever  had  a  sorrow  of  their  own  shall 
— what  is  it  the  poem  says  ? — 

"  Understand  the  speech  and  feel  a  stir 
Of  fellowship  in  all  disastrous  fight. 

4  In  all  disastrous  fight '  ?  That's  better  than 
painting  the  thing  merely  to  pique  Maisie.  I  can 
do  it  now  because  I  have  it  inside  me.  Binkie, 
I'm  going  to  hold  you  up  by  your  tail.  You're 
an  omen.     Come  here." 

Binkie  swung  head  downward  for  a  moment 
without  speaking. 

"'Rather  like  holding  a  guinea-pig;  but  you're 
a  brave  little  dog,  and  you  don't  yelp  when 
you're  hung  up.     It  is  an  omen." 

Binkie  went  to  his  own  chair,  and  as  often  as 
he  looked  saw  Dick  walking  up  and  down,  rub- 
bing his  hands  and  chuckling.  That  night  Dick 
wrote  a  letter  to  Maisie  full  of  the  tenderest  re- 
gard for  her  health,  but  saying  very  little  about 
his  own,  and  dreamed  of  the  Melancolia  to  be 
born.  Not  till  morning  did  he  remember  that 
something  might  happen  to  him  in  the  future. 

He  fell  to  work,  whistling  softly,  and  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  clean,  clear  joy  of  creation, 
which  does  not  come  to  man  too  often,  lest  he 


2io  The  Light  that  Failed 

should  consider  himself  the  equal  of  his  God,  and 
so  refuse  to  die  at  the  appointed  time.  He  forgot 
Maisie,  Torpenhow,  and  Binkie  at  his  feet,  but 
remembered  to  stir  Bessie,  who  needed  very  lit- 
tle stirring,  into  a  tremendous  rage,  that  he  might 
watch  the  smouldering  lights  in  her  eyes.  He 
threw  himself  without  reservation  into  his  work, 
and  did  not  think  of  the  doom  that  was  to  over- 
take him,  for  he  was  possessed  with  his  notion, 
and  the  things  of  this  world  had  no  power  upon 
him. 

"You're  pleased  to-day,"  said  Bessie. 

Dick  waved  his  mahl-stick  in  mystic  circles  and 
went  to  the  sideboard  for  a  drink.  In  the  even- 
ing, when  the  exaltation  of  the  day  had  died 
down,  he  went  to  the  sideboard  again,  and  after 
some  visits  became  convinced  that  the  eye-doctor 
was  a  liar,  since  he  still  could  see  everything  very 
clearly.  He  was  of  opinion  that  he  would  even 
make  a  home  for  Maisie,  and  that  whether  she 
liked  it  or  not  she  should  be  his  wife.  The  mood 
passed  next  morning,  but  the  sideboard  and  all 
upon  it  remained  for  his  comfort.  Again  he  set 
to  work,  and  his  eyes  troubled  him  with  spots 
and  dashes  and  blurs  till  he  had  taken  counsel 
with  the  sideboard,  and  the  Melancolia  both  on 
the  canvas  and  in  his  own  mind  appeared  lovelier 
than  ever.  There  was  a  delightful  sense  of  irre- 
sponsibility upon  him,  such  as  they  feel  who 


The  Light  that  Failed  ail 

walking  among  their  fellow-men  know  that  the 
death-sentence  of  disease  is  upon  them,  and, 
since  fear  is  but  waste  of  the  little  time  left,  are 
riotously  happy.  The  days  passed  without  event. 
Bessie  arrived  punctually  always,  and,  though 
her  voice  seemed  to  Dick  to  come  from  a  distance, 
her  face  was  always  very  near,  and  the  Melan- 
colia  began  to  flame  on  the  canvas,  in  the  likeness 
of  a  woman  who  had  known  all  the  sorrow  in 
the  world  and  was  laughing  at  it.  It  was  true 
that  the  corners  of  the  studio  draped  themselves 
in  grey  film  and  retired  into  the  darkness,  that 
the  spots  in  his  eyes  and  the  pains  across  his  head 
were  very  troublesome,  and  that  Maisie's  letters 
were  hard  to  read  and  harder  still  to  answer.  He 
could  not  tell  her  of  his  trouble,  and  he  could  not 
laugh  at  her  accounts  of  her  own  Melancolia 
which  was  always  going  to  be  finished.  But  the 
furious  days  of  toil  and  the  nights  of  wild  dreams 
made  amends  for  all,  and  the  sideboard  was  his 
best  friend  on  earth.  Bessie  was  singularly  dull. 
She  used  to  shriek  with  rage  when  Dick  stared 
at  her  between  half-closed  eyes.  Now  she 
sulked,  or  watched  him  with  disgust,  saying 
very  little. 

Torpenhow  had  been  absent  for  six  weeks. 
An  incoherent  note  heralded  his  return.  "News! 
great  news!"  he  wrote.  "The  Nilghai  knows, 
and    so  does  the  Keneu.     We're  all  back  on 


212  The  Light  that  Failed 

Thursday.  Get  lunch  and  clean  your  accoutre- 
ments." 

Dick  showed  Bessie  the  letter,  and  she  abused 
him  for  that  he  had  ever  sent  Torpenhow  away 
and  ruined  her  life. 

"Well,"  said  Dick,  brutally,  "you're  better  as 
you  are,  instead  of  making  love  to  some  drunken 
beast  in  the  street."  He  felt  that  he  had  rescued 
Torpenhow  from  great  temptation. 

"I  don't  know  if  that's  any  worse  than  sitting 
to  a  drunken  beast  in  a  studio.  You  haven't 
been  sober  for  three  weeks.  You've  been  soak- 
ing the  whole  time;  and  yet  you  pretend  you're 
better  than  me!" 

"What  d'you  mean?"  said  Dick. 

"Mean!  You'll  see  when  Mr.  Torpenhow 
comes  back." 

It  was  not  long  to  wait.  Torpenhow  met 
Bessie  on  the  staircase  without  a  sign  of  feeling. 
He  had  news  that  was  more  to  him  than  many 
Bessies,  and  the  Keneu  and  the  Nilghai  were 
trampling  behind  him,  calling  for  Dick. 

"Drinking  like  a  fish,"  Bessie  whispered. 
"He's  been  at  it  for  nearly  a  month."  She  fol- 
lowed the  men  stealthily  to  hear  judgment  done. 

They  came  into  the  studio,  rejoicing,  to  be  wel- 
comed over-effusively  by  a  drawn,  lined, 
shrunken,  haggard  wreck, — unshaven,  blue- 
white  about  the  nostrils,  stooping  in  the  shoul- 


The  Light  that  Failed  313 

ders,  and  peering  under  his  eyebrows  nervously. 
The  drink  had  been  at  work  as  steadily  as  Dick. 

"Is  this  you?"  said  Torpenhow. 

"  All  that's  left  of  me.  Sit  down.  Binkie's 
quite  well,  and  I've  been  doing  some  good  work." 
He  reeled  where  he  stood. 

"  You've  done  some  of  the  worst  work  you've 
ever  done  in  your  life.     Man  alive,  you're" — 

Torpenhow  turned  to  his  companions  appeal- 
ingly,  and  they  left  the  room  to  find  lunch  else- 
where. Then  he  spoke;  but,  since  the  reproof 
of  a  friend  is  much  too  sacred  and  intimate  a 
thing  to  be  printed,  and  since  Torpenhow  used 
figures  and  metaphors  which  were  unseemly, 
and  contempt  untranslatable,  it  will  never  be 
known  what  was  actually  said  to  Dick,  who 
blinked  and  winked  and  picked  at  his  hands. 
After  a  time  the  culprit  began  to  feel  the  need  of 
a  little  self-respect.  He  was  quite  sure  that  he 
had  not  in  any  way  departed  from  virtue,  and 
there  were  reasons,  too,  of  which  Torpenhow 
knew  nothing.     He  would  explain. 

He  rose,  tried  to  straighten  his  shoulders,  and 
spoke  to  the  face  he  could  hardly  see. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said.  "But  I  am  right, 
too.  After  you  went  away  I  had  some  trouble 
with  my  eyes.  So  I  went  to  an  oculist,  and  he 
turned  a  gasogene — I  mean  a  gas-engine — into 
my  eye.    That  was  very  long  ago.     He  said, 


214  The  Light  that  Failed 

'Scar  on  the  head, — sword-cut  and  optic  nerve. ' 
Make  a  note  of  that.  So  I  am  going  blind.  1 
have  some  work  to  do  before  I  go  blind,  and  I 
suppose  that  1  must  do  it.  I  cannot  see  much 
now,  but  I  can  see  best  when  I  am  drunk.  I  did 
not  know  I  was  drunk  till  I  was  told,  but  I  must 
go  on  with  my  work.  If  you  want  to  see  it, 
there  it  is."  He  pointed  to  the  all  but  finished 
Melancolia  and  looked  for  applause. 

Torpenhow  said  nothing,  and  Dick  began  to 
whimper  feebly,  for  joy  at  seeing  Torpenhow 
again,  for  grief  at  misdeeds — if  indeed  they  were 
misdeeds — that  made  Torpenhow  remote  and 
unsympathetic,  and  for  childish  vanity  hurt,  since 
Torpenhow  had  not  given  a  word  of  praise  to  his 
wonderful  picture. 

Bessie  looked  through  the  keyhole  after  a  long 
pause,  and  saw  the  two  walking  up  and  down 
as  usual,  Torpenhow's  hand  on  Dick's  shoulder. 
Hereat  she  said  something  so  improper  that  it 
shocked  even  Binkie,  who  was  dribbling  patiently 
on  the  landing  with  the  hope  of  seeing  his  mas- 
ter again. 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  lark  will  make  her  hymn  to  God, 

The  partridge  call  her  brood, 
While  I  forget  the  heath  I  trod, 

The  fields  wherein  I  stood. 
Tis  dule  to  know  not  night  from  morn, 

But  deeper  dule  to  know 
I  can  but  hear  the  hunter's  horn 

That  once  I  used  to  blow. —  The  Only  Son, 

It  was  the  third  day  after  Torpenhow's  return, 
and  his  heart  was  heavy. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  can't  see  to 
work  without  whiskey  ?  It's  generally  the  other 
way  about." 

"Can  a  drunkard  swear  on  his  honor ?"  said 
Dick. 

"  Yes,  if  he  has  been  as  good  a  man  as  you." 

"Then  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,"  said 
Dick,  speaking  hurriedly  through  parched  lips. 
"Old  man,  1  can  hardly  see  your  face  now. 
You've  kept  me  sober  for  two  days, — if  1  ever 
was  drunk, — and  I've  done  no  work.  Don't  keep 
me  back  any  more.  I  don't  know  when  my  eyes 
may  give  out.  The  spots  and  dots  and  the  pains 
and  things  are  crowding  worse  than  ever.  I 
swear  I  can  see  all  right  when  I'm — when  I'm 
moderately  screwed,  as  you  say.  Give  me  three 
215 


216  The  Light  that  Failed 

more  sittings  from  Bessie  and  all  the — stuff  I 
want,  and  the  picture  will  be  done.  I  can't  kill 
myself  in  three  days.  It  only  means  a  touch  of 
D.  T.  at  the  worst." 

"  If  I  give  you  three  days  more  will  you  prom- 
ise me  to  stop  work  and — the  other  thing, 
whether  the  picture's  finished  or  not?" 

"I  can't.  You  don't  know  what  that  picture 
means  to  me.  But  surely  you  could  get  the 
Nilghai  to  help  you,  and  knock  me  down  and  tie 
me  up.  I  shouldn't  fight  for  the  whiskey,  but  I 
should  for  the  work." 

"Go  on,  then.  I  give  you  three  days;  but 
you're  nearly  breaking  my  heart." 

Dick  returned  to  his  work,  toiling  as  one  pos- 
sessed; and  the  yellow  devil  of  whiskey  stood 
by  him  and  chased  away  the  spots  in  his  eyes. 
The  Melancolia  was  nearly  finished,  and  was  all 
or  nearly  all  that  he  had  hoped  she  would  be. 
Dick  jested  with  Bessie,  who  reminded  him  that 
he  was  "a  drunken  beast";  but  the  reproof  did 
not  move  him. 

"  You  can't  understand,  Bess.  We  are  in  sight 
of  land  now,  and  soon  we  shall  lie  back  and 
think  about  what  we've  done.  I'll  give  you 
three  months'  pay  when  the  picture's  finished, 
and  next  time  I  have  any  more  work  in  hand — 
but  that  doesn't  matter.  Won't  three  months' 
pay  make  you  hate  me  less?" 


The  Light  that  Failed  ai<7 

"No,  it  won't!  I  hate  you,  and  I'll  go  on  hat- 
ing you.  Mr.  Torpenhow  won't  speak  to  me 
any  more.  He's  always  looking  at  map-things 
and  red-backed  books." 

Bessie  did  not  say  that  she  had  again  laid  siege 
to  Torpenhow,  or  that  he  had  at  the  end  of  her 
passionate  pleading  picked  her  up,  given  her  a 
kiss,  and  put  her  outside  the  door  with  a  recom- 
mendation not  to  be  a  little  fool.  He  spent  most 
of  his  time  in  the  company  of  the  Nilghai,  and 
their  talk  was  of  war  in  the  near  future,  the  hir- 
ing of  transports,  and  secret  preparations  among 
the  dockyards.  He  did  not  care  to  see  Dick  till 
the  picture  was  finished. 

"He's  doing  first-class  work,"  he  said  to  the 
Nilghai, ' '  and  it's  quite  out  of  his  regular  line.  But, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  so's  his  infernal  drinking." 

"Never  mind.  Leave  him  alone.  When  he 
has  come  to  his  senses  again  we'll  carry  him  off 
from  this  place  and  let  him  breathe  clean  air. 
Poor  Dick!  I  don't  envy  you,  Torp,  when  his 
eyes  fail." 

"Yes,  it  will  be  a  case  of  'God  help  the  man 
who's  chained  to  our  Davie.'  The  worst  is  that 
we  don't  know  when  it  will  happen;  and  I  be- 
lieve the  uncertainty  and  the  waiting  have  sent 
Dick  to  the  whiskey  more  than  anything  else." 

"  How  the  Arab  who  cut  his  head  open  would 
grin  if  he  knew!" 


2i8  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  He's  at  perfect  liberty  to  grin  if  he  can. 
He's  dead.     That's  poor  consolation  now." 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  Torpenhow 
heard  Dick  calling  for  him.  "All  finished!  "  he 
shouted.  "I've  done  it!  Come  in!  Isn't  she  a 
beauty  ?  Isn't  she  a  darling  ?  I've  been  down  to 
hell  to  get  her;  but  isn't  she  worth  it?" 

Torpenhow  looked  at  the  head  of  a  woman 
who  laughed, — a  full-lipped,  hollow-eyed  woman 
who  laughed  from  out  of  the  canvas  as  Dick  had 
intended  she  should. 

"Who  taught  you  how  to  doit?"  said  Tor- 
penhow. "The  touch  and  notion  have  nothing 
to  do  with  your  regular  work.  What  a  face  it 
is!  What  eyes,  and  what  insolence!"  Uncon- 
sciously he  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
with  her.  "She's  seen  the  game  played  out, — I 
don't  think  she  had  a  good  time  of  it, — and  now 
she  doesn't  care.     Isn't  that  the  idea?" 

"Exactly." 

"Where  did  you  get  the  mouth  and  chin 
from  ?    They  don't  belong  to  Bess." 

"  They're — some  one  else's.  But  isn't  it  good  ? 
Isn't  it  thundering  good  ?  Wasn't  it  worth  the 
whiskey  ?  I  did  it.  Alone  I  did  it,  and  it's  the 
best  I  can  do."  He  drew  his  breath  sharply,  and 
whispered,  "Just  God!  what  could  I  not  do  ten 
years  hence,  if  I  can  do  this  now ! — By  the  way, 
what  do  you  think  of  it,  Bess  ?  " 


The  Light  that  Failed  219 

The  girl  was  biting  her  lips.  She  loathed  Tor- 
penhow  because  he  had  taken  no  notice  of  her. 

"I  think  it's  just  the  horridest,  beastliest  thing 
I  ever  saw,"  she  answered,  and  turned  away. 

"More  than  you  will  be  of  that  way  of  think- 
ing, young  woman. — Dick,  there's  a  sort  of  mur- 
derous, viperine  suggestion  in  the  poise  of  the 
head  that  I  don't  understand,"  said  Torpenhow. 

"That's  trick-work,"  said  Dick,  chuckling 
with  delight  of  being  completely  understood. 
"  I  couldn't  resist  one  little  bit  of  sheer  swagger. 
It's  a  French  trick,  and  you  wouldn't  understand; 
but  it's  got  at  by  slewing  round  the  head  a  trifle, 
and  a  tiny,  tiny  foreshortening  of  one  side  of  the 
face  from  the  angle  of  the  chin  to  the  top  of  the 
left  ear.  That,  and  deepening  the  shadow  under 
the  lobe  of  the  ear.  It  was  flagrant  trick-work; 
but,  having  the  notion  fixed,  I  felt  entitled  to  play 
with  it. — Oh,  you  beauty !  " 

"  Amen!     She  is  a  beauty.     I  can  feel  it." 

"So  will  every  man  who  has  any  sorrow  of 
his  own,"  said  Dick,  slapping  his  thigh.  "  He 
shall  see  his  trouble  there,  and,  by  the  Lord 
Harry,  just  when  he's  feeling  properly  sorry  for 
himself  he  shall  throw  back  his  head  and  laugh, 
—  as  she  is  laughing.  I've  put  the  life  of  my 
heart  and  the  light  of  my  eyes  into  her,  and  I 
don't  care  what  comes.  ...  I'm  tired, — 
awfully  tired.     I  think  I'll  get  to  sleep.     Take 


22Q  The  Light  that  Failed 

away  the  whiskey,  it  has  served  its  turn,  and 
give  Bessie  thirty-six  quid,  and  three  over  for 
luck.    Cover  the  picture." 

He  dropped  asleep  in  the  long  chair,  his  face 
white  and  haggard,  almost  before  he  had  finished 
the  sentence.  Bessie  tried  to  take  Torpenhow's 
hand.  "  Aren't  you  never  going  to  speak  to  me 
any  more?"  she  said;  but  Torpenhow  was  look- 
ing at  Dick. 

"What  a  stock  of  vanity  the  man  has!  I'll 
take  him  in  hand  to-morrow  and  make  much  of 
him.  He  deserves  it. — Eh!  what  was  that, 
Bess?" 

"Nothing.  I'll  put  things  tidy  here  a  little, 
and  then  I'll  go.  You  couldn't  give  me  that 
three  months'  pay  now,  could  you?  He  said 
you  were  to." 

Torpenhow  gave  her  a  check  and  went  to  his 
own  rooms.  Bessie  faithfully  tidied  up  the  stu- 
dio, set  the  door  ajar  for  flight,  emptied  half  a 
bottle  of  turpentine  on  a  duster,  and  began  to 
scrub  the  face  of  the  Melancolia  viciously.  The 
paint  did  not  smudge  quickly  enough.  She 
took  a  palette-knife  and  scraped,  following  each 
stroke  with  the  wet  duster.  In  five  minutes  the 
picture  was  a  formless,  scarred  muddle  of  colors. 
She  threw  the  paint-stained  duster  into  the  studio 
stove,  stuck  out  her  tongue  at  the  sleeper,  and 
whispered,   "Bilked!"    as   she   turned  to    run 


Copyright,  1899,  by  H.  M.  Caldwell  Co. 

Bessie  Destroys  the  Picture. 


The  Light  that  Failed  221 

down  the  staircase.  She  would  never  see  Tor- 
penhow  any  more,  but  she  had  at  least  done 
harm  to  the  man  who  had  come  between  her 
and  her  desire  and  who  used  to  make  fun  of  her. 
Cashing  the  check  was  the  very  cream  of  the  jest 
to  Bessie.  Then  the  little  privateer  sailed  across 
the  Thames,  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  grey 
wilderness  of  South-the-water. 

Dick  slept  till  late  into  the  evening,  when  Tor- 
penhow  dragged  him  off  to  bed.  His  eyes  were 
as  bright  as  his  voice  was  hoarse.  "  Let's  have 
another  look  at  the  picture,"  he  said,  insistently 
as  a  child. 

"  You — go — to — bed,"  said  Torpenhow.  "  You 
aren't  at  all  well,  though  you  mayn't  know  it. 
You're  as  jumpy  as  a  cat." 

"I  reform  to-morrow.     Good-night." 

As  he  repassed  through  the  studio,  Torpenhow 
lifted  the  cloth  above  the  picture,  and  almost 
betrayed  himself  by  outcries:  "Wiped  out! — > 
scraped  out  and  turped  out!  If  Dick  knows  this 
to-night  he'll  go  perfectly  mad.  He's  on  the 
verge  of  jumps  as  it  is.  That's  Bess, — the  little 
fiend!  Only  a  woman  could  have  done  that! — 
with  the  ink  not  dry  on  the  check,  too!  Dick 
will  be  raving  mad  to-morrow.  It  was  all  my 
fault  for  trying  to  help  gutter-devils.  Oh,  my 
poor  Dick,  the  Lord  is  hitting  you  very  hard!  " 

Dick  could  not  sleep  that  night,  partly  for  pure 


222  The  Light  that  Failed 

joy,  and  partly  because  the  well-known  Cathe- 
rine-wheels inside  his  eyes  had  given  place 
to  crackling  volcanoes  of  many-colored  fire. 
"Spout  away,"  he  said,  aloud.  "I've  done  my 
work,  and  now  you  can  do  what  you  please." 
He  lay  still,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  the  long-pent- 
up  delirium  of  drink  in  his  veins,  his  brain  on 
fire  with  racing  thoughts  that  would  not  stay  to 
be  considered,  and  his  hands  crisped  and  dry. 
He  had  just  discovered  that  he  was  painting  the 
face  of 'the  Melancolia  on  a  revolving  dome  ribbed 
with  millions  of  lights,  and  that  all  his  wondrous 
thoughts  stood  embodied  hundreds  of  feet  below 
his  tiny  swinging  plank,  shouting  together  in  his 
honor,  when  something  cracked 'inside  his  tem- 
ples like  an  overstrained  bowstring,  the  glittering 
dome  broke  inward,  and  he  was  alone  in  the 
thick  night. 

"  I'll  go  to  sleep.  The  room's  very  dark.  Let's 
light  a  lamp  and  see  how  the  Melancolia  looks. 
There  ought  to  have  been  a  moon." 

It  was  then  that  Torpenhow  heard  his  name 
called  by  a  voice  that  he  did  not  know, — in  the 
rattling  accents  of  deadly  fear. 

"He's  looked  at  the  picture,"  was  his  first 
thought,  as  he  hurried  into  the  bedroom  and  found 
Dick  sitting  up  and  beating  the  air  with  his  hands. 

"Torp!  Torp!  Where  are  you?  For  pity's 
sake,  come  to  me!" 


The  Light  that  Failed  22y 

"What's  the  matter?" 

Dick  clutched  at  his  shoulder.  "  Matter!  I've 
been  lying  here  for  hours  in  the  dark,  and  you 
never  heard  me.  Torp,  old  man,  don't  go  away. 
I'm  all  in  the  dark.     In  the  dark,  I  tell  you! " 

Torpenhow  held  the  candle  within  a  foot  of 
Dick's  eyes,  but  there  was  no  light  in  those  eyes. 
He  lit  the  gas,  and  Dick  heard  the  flame  catch. 
The  grip  of  his  fingers  on  Torpenhow's  shoulder 
made  Torpenhow  wince. 

"Don't  leave  me.  You  wouldn't  leave  me 
alone  now,  would  you  ?  I  can't  see.  D'you  un- 
derstand ?  It's  black, — quite  black, — and  I  feel 
as  if  I  was  falling  through  it  all." 

"Steady,  does  it."  Torpenhow  put  his  arm 
round  Dick  and  began  to  rock  him  gently  to  and 
fro. 

"That's  good.  Now  don't  talk.  If  I  keep 
very  quiet  for  a  while,  this  darkness  will  lift. 
It  seems  just  on  the  point  of  breaking.  H'sh!" 
Dick  knit  his  brows  and  stared  desperately  in 
front  of  him.  The  night  air  was  chilling  Tor- 
penhow's toes. 

"Can  you  stay  like  that  a  minute?"  he  said. 
"I'd  get  my  dressing-gown  and  some  slip- 
pers.'' 

Dick  clutched  the  bed-head  with  both  hands 
and  waited  for  the  darkness  to  clear  away. 
"What  a  time  you've  been!"   he  cried,  when 


224  The  Light  that  Failed 

Torpenhow  returned.  "  It's  as  black  as  ever. 
What  are  you  banging  about  in  the  doorway  ?" 

"Long  chair, — horse-blanket, — pillow.  Going 
to  sleep  by  you.  Lie  down  now;  you'll  be  bet- 
ter in  the  morning." 

"  I  shan't!"  The  voice  rose  to  a  wail.  "My 
God!  I'm  blind!  I'm  blind,  and  the  darkness 
will  never  go  away."  He  made  as  if  to  leap 
from  the  bed,  but  Torpenhow's  arms  were 
round  him,  and  Torpenhow's  chin  was  on  his 
shoulder,  and  his  breath  was  squeezed  out  of 
him.  He  could  only  gasp,  "  Blind  1 "  and  wriggle 
feebly. 

"Steady,  Dickie,  steady!"  said  the  deep  voice 
in  his  ear,  and  the  grip  tightened.  "  Bite  on  the 
bullet,  old  man,  and  don't  let  them  think  you're 
afraid."  The  grip  could  draw  no  closer.  Both 
men  were  breathing  heavily.  Dick  threw  his 
head  from  side  to  side  and  groaned. 

"Let  me  go,"  he  panted.  "You're  cracking 
my  ribs.  We — we  mustn't  let  them  think  we're 
afraid,  must  we, — all  the  powers  of  darkness  and 
that  lot  ?  " 

"  Lie  down.     It's  all  over  now." 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  obediently.  "But  would 
you  mind  letting  me  hold  your  hand  ?  I  feel  as 
if  I  wanted  something  to  hold  on  to.  One  drops 
through  the  dark  so." 

Torpenhow  thrust  out  a  large  and  hairy  paw 


The  Light  that  Failed  225 

from  the  long  chair.  Dick  clutched  it  tightly, 
and  in  half  an  hour  had  fallen  asleep.  Torpen- 
how  withdrew  his  hand,  and,  stooping  over 
Dick,  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  forehead,  as  men 
do  sometimes  kiss  a  wounded  comrade  in  the 
hour  of  death,  to  ease  his  departure. 

In  the  grey  dawn  Torpenhow  heard  Dick  talk- 
ing to  himself.  He  was  adrift  on  the  shoreless 
tides  of  delirium,  speaking  very  quickly  — 

"It's  a  pity, — a  great  pity;  but  it's  helped,  and 
it  must  be  eaten,  Master  George.  Sufficient  unto 
the  day  is  the  blindness  thereof,  and,  further, 
putting  aside  all  Melancolias  and  false  humors,  it 
is  of  obvious  notoriety — such  as  mine  was — that 
the  queen  can  do  no  wrong.  Torp  doesn't  know 
that.  I'll  tell  him  when  we're  a  little  farther  into 
the  desert.  What  a  bungle  those  boatmen  are 
making  of  the  steamer-ropes!  They'll  have  that 
four-inch  hawser  chafed  through  in  a  minute.  I 
told  you  so — there  she  goes!  White  foam  on 
green  water,  and  the  steamer  slewing  round. 
How  good  that  looks!  I'll  sketch  it.  No,  I 
can't.  I'm  afflicted  with  ophthalmia.  That  was 
one  of  the  ten  plagues  of  Egypt,  and  it  extends 
up  the  Nile  in  the  shape  of  cataract.  Ha!  that's 
a  joke,  Torp.  Laugh,  you  graven  image,  and 
stand  clear  of  the  hawser.  .  .  .  It'll  knock 
you  into  the  water  and  make  your  dress  all  dirty, 
Maisie  dear." 


226  The  Light  that  Failed 

"Oh!"  said  Torpenhow.  "This  happened 
before.     That  night  on  the  river." 

"  She'll  be  sure  to  say  it's  my  fault  if  you  get 
muddy,  and  you're  quite  near  enough  to  the  break- 
water. Maisie,  that's  not  fair.  Ah!  I  knew 
you'd  miss.  Low  and  to  the  left,  dear.  But 
you've  no  conviction.  Everything  in  the  world 
except  conviction.  Don't  be  angry,  darling.  I'd 
cut  my  hand  off  if  it  would  give  you  anything 
more  than  obstinacy.  My  right  hand,  if  it  would 
serve." 

"Now  we  mustn't  listen.  Here's  an  island 
shouting  across  seas  of  misunderstanding  with  a 
vengeance.  But  it's  shouting  truth,  I  fancy,"  said 
Torpenhow. 

The  babble  continued.  It  all  bore  upon  Maisie. 
Sometimes  Dick  lectured  at  length  on  his  craft, 
then  he  cursed  himself  for  his  folly  in  being  en- 
slaved. He  pleaded  to  Maisie  for  a  kiss — only 
one  kiss — before  she  went  away,  and  called  to 
her  to  come  back  from  Vitry-sur-Marne,  if  she 
would;  but  through  all  his  ravings  he  bade  heaven 
and  earth  witness  that  the  queen  could  do  no 
wrong. 

Torpenhow  listened  attentively,  and  learned 
every  detail  of  Dick's  life  that  had  been  hidden 
from  him.  For  three  days  Dick  raved  through 
his  past,  and  then  slept  a  natural  sleep.  "What 
a  strain  he  has  been  running  under,  poor  chap!  " 


The  Light  that  Failed  221 

said  Torpenhow.  "Dick,  of  all  men,  handing 
himself  over  like  a  dog!  And  I  was  lecturing 
him  on  arrogance!  I  ought  to  have  known  that 
it  was  no  use  to  judge  a  man.  But  I  did  it. 
What  a  demon  that  girl  must  be!  Dick's  given 
her  his  life, — confound  him ! — and  she's  given  him 
one  kiss  apparently." 

"  Torp,"  said  Dick  from  the  bed,  "go  out  for 
a  walk.  You've  been  here  too  long.  I'll  get  up. 
Hi!  This  is  annoying.  1  can't  dress  myself. 
Oh,  it's  too  absurd!" 

Torpenhow  helped  him  into  his  clothes  and  led 
him  to  the  big  chair  in  the  studio.  He  sat  quietly 
waiting  under  strained  nerves  for  the  darkness  to 
lift.  It  did  not  lift  that  day,  nor  the  next.  Dick 
adventured  on  a  voyage  round  the  walls.  He  hit 
his  shins  against  the  stove,  and  this  suggested  to 
him  that  it  would  be  better  to  crawl  on  all-fours, 
one  hand  in  front  of  him.  Torpenhow  found  him 
on  the  floor. 

"I'm  trying  to  get  the  geography  of  my  new 
possessions,"  said  he.  "D'you  remember  that 
nigger  you  gouged  in  the  square  ?  Pity  you 
didn't  keep  the  odd  eye.  It  would  have  been 
useful.  Any  letters  for  me  ?  Give  me  all  the 
ones  in  fat  grey  envelopes  with  a  sort  of  crown 
thing  outside.    They're  of  no  importance." 

Torpenhow  gave  him  a  letter  with  a  black  M. 
on  the  envelope  flap.    Dick  put  it  into  his  pocket. 


228  The  Light  that  Failed 

There  was  nothing  in  it  that  Torpenhow  might 
not  have  read,  but  it  belonged  to  himself  and  to 
Maisie,  who  would  never  belong  to  him. 

"When  she  finds  that  I  don't  write,  she'll  stop 
writing.  It's  better  so.  I  couldn't  be  any  use  to 
her  now,"  Dick  argued,  and  the  tempter  suggested 
that  he  should  make  known  his  condition.  Every 
nerve  in  him  revolted.  "I  have  fallen  low  enough 
already.  I'm  not  going  to  beg  for  pity.  Besides, 
it  would  be  cruel  to  her."  He  strove  to  put 
Maisie  out  of  his  thoughts;  but  the  blind  have 
many  opportunities  for  thinking,  and  as  the  tides 
of  his  strength  came  back  to  him  in  the  long  em- 
ployless  days  of  dead  darkness,  Dick's  soul  was 
troubled  to  the  core.  Another  letter,  and  an- 
other, came  from  Maisie.  Then  there  was 
silence,  and  Dick  sat  by  the  window,  the  pulse 
of  summer  in  the  air,  and  pictured  her  being  won 
by  another  man,  stronger  than  himself.  His 
imagination,  the  keener  for  the  dark  background 
it  worked  against,  spared  him  no  single  detail 
that  might  send  him  raging  up  and  down  the 
studio,  to  stumble  over  the  stove  that  seemed  to 
be  in  four  places  at  once.  Worst  of  all,  tobacco 
would  not  taste  in  the  darkness.  The  arrogance 
of  the  man  had  disappeared,  and  in  its  place  were 
settled  despair  that  Torpenhow  knew,  and  blind 
passion  that  Dick  confided  to  his  pillow  at  night. 
The  intervals  between  the  paroxysms  were  filled 


The  Light  that  Failed  229 

with  intolerable  waiting  and  the  weight  of  intol- 
erable darkness. 

"Come  out  into  the  Park,"  said  Torpenhow. 
"You  haven't  stirred  out  since  the  beginning  of 
things." 

"  What's  the  use  ?  There's  no  movement  in 
the  dark;  and,  besides," — he  paused  irresolutely 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs, — "something  will  run 
over  me." 

"Not  if  I'm  with  you.     Proceed  gingerly." 

The  roar  of  the  streets  filled  Dick  with  nervous 
terror,  and  he  clung  to  Torpenhow's  arm. 
"Fancy  having  to  feel  for  a  gutter  with  your 
foot!"  he  said,  petulantly,  as  he  turned  into  the 
Park.     "  Let's  curse  God  and  die." 

"Sentries  are  forbidden  to  pay  unauthorized 
compliments.     By  Jove,  there  are  the  Guards! " 

Dick's  figure  straightened.  "Let's  get  near 
'em.  Let's  go  in  and  look.  Let's  get  on  the 
grass  and  run.    I  can  smell  the  trees." 

"Mind  the  low  railing.  That's  all  right!" 
Torpenhow  kicked  out  a  tuft  of  grass  with  his 
heel.  "Smell  that,"  he  said.  "  Isn't  it  good?" 
Dick  snuffed  luxuriously.  "Now  pick  up  your 
feet  and  run."  They  approached  as  near  to  the 
regiment  as  was  possible.  The  clank  of  bayo- 
nets being  unfixed  made  Dick's  nostrils  quiver. 

"Let's  get  nearer.  They're  in  column,  aren't 
they?" 


2JQ  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  Yes.     How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"Felt  it.  Oh,  my  men! — my  beautiful  men!" 
He  edged  forward  as  though  he  could  see.  "I 
could  draw  those  chaps  once.  Who'll  draw  'em 
now?" 

"They'll  move  off  in  a  minute.  Don't  jump 
when  the  band  begins." 

"Huh!  I'm  not  a  new  charger.  It's  the  si- 
lences that  hurt.  Nearer,  Torp! — nearer!  Oh, 
my  God,  what  wouldn't  I  give  to  see  'em  for  a 
minute! — one  half  minute! " 

He  could  hear  the  armed  life  almost  within 
reach  of  him,  could  hear  the  slings  tighten  across 
the  bandsman's  chest  as  he  heaved  the  big  drum 
from  the  ground. 

"Sticks  crossed  above  his  head,"  whispered 
Torpenhow. 

"I  know.  /  know!  Who  should  know  if  I 
don't?    H'sh!" 

The  drum-sticks  fell  with  a  boom,  and  the 
men  swung  forward  to  the  crash  of  the  band. 
Dick  felt  the  wind  of  the  massed  movement  in 
his  face,  heard  the  maddening  tramp  of  feet  and 
the  friction  of  the  pouches  on  the  belts.  The  big 
drum  pounded  out  the  tune.  It  was  a  music- 
hail  refrain  that  made  a  perfect  quickstep  — 

He  must  be  a  man  of  decent  height, 

He  must  be  a  man  of  weight, 
He  must  come  home  on  a  Saturday  night 

In  a  thoroughly  sober  state ; 


The  Light  that  Failed  331 

He  must  know  how  to  love  me, 

And  he  must  know  how  to  kiss ; 
And  if  he's  enough  to  keep  us  both 

I  can't  refuse  him  bliss. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Torpenhow,  as  he 
saw  Dick's  head  fall  when  the  last  of  the  regi- 
ment had  departed. 

"  Nothing.  I  feel  a  little  bit  out  of  the  run- 
ning,— that's  all.  Torp,  take  me  back.  Why 
did  you  bring  me  out?" 


CHAPTER  XII 

There  were  three  friends  that  buried  the  fourth, 
The  mould  in  his  mouth  and  the  dust  in  his  eyes; 

And  they  went  south  and  east,  and  north, — 
The  strong  man  fights,  but  the  sick  man  dies. 

There  were  three  friends  that  spoke  of  the  dead, — 

The  strong  man  fights,  but  the  sick  man  dies 

*  And  would  he  were  here  with  us  now,"  they  said, 
"  The  sun  in  our  face  and  the  wind  in  our  eyes." 

—Ballad. 

The  Nilghai  was  angry  with  Torpenhow, 
Dick  had  been  sent  to  bed, — blind  men  are  evei 
under  the  orders  of  those  who  can  see, — and 
since  he  had  returned  from  the  Park  had  fluently 
sworn  at  Torpenhow  because  he  was  alive,  and 
all  the  world  because  it  was  alive  and  could  see, 
while  he,  Dick,  was  dead  in  the  death  of  the 
blind,  who,  at  the  best,  are  only  burdens  upon 
their  associates.  Torpenhow  had  said  something 
about  a  Mrs.  Gummidge,  and  Dick  had  retired  in 
a  black  fury  to  handle  and  rehandle  three  un- 
opened letters  from  Maisie. 

The  Nilghai,  fat,  burly,  and  aggressive,  was  in 
forpenhow's  rooms.  Behind  him  sat  the  Keneu, 
the  Great  war  fcagle,  and  between  them  lay  a 
232 


The  Light  that  Failed  233 

large  map  embellished  with  black  and  white- 
headed  pins. 

"1  was  wrong  about  the  Balkans,"  said  the 
Nilghai.  "  But  I'm  not  wrong  about  this  busi- 
ness. The  whole  of  our  work  in  the  Southern 
Soudan  must  be  done  over  again.  The  public 
doesn't  care,  of  course,  but  the  government  does, 
and  they  are  making  their  arrangements  quietly. 
You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

'*  I  remember  how  the  people  cursed  us  when 
our  troops  withdrew  from  Omdurman.  It  was 
bound  to  crop  up  sooner  or  later.  But  I  can't 
go,"  said  Torpenhow.  He  pointed  through  the 
open  door;  it  was  a  hot  night.  "Can  you  blame 
me?" 

The  Keneu  purred  above  his  pipe  like  a  large 
and  very  happy  cat — 

"Don't  blame  you  in  the  least.  It's  uncom- 
monly good  of  you,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  but 
every  man — even  you,  Torp — must  consider  his 
work.  I  know  it  sounds  brutal,  but  Dick's  out 
of  the  race, — down, — gastados,  expended,  fin- 
ished, done  for.  He  has  a  little  money  of  his 
own.  He  won't  starve,  and  you  can't  pull  out 
of  your  slide  for  his  sake.  Think  of  your  own 
reputation." 

"Dick's  was  five  times  bigger  than  mine  and 
yours  put  together." 

"That  was  because  he  signed  his  name  to 


234  The  Light  that  Failed 

everything  he  did.  It's  all  ended  now.  You 
must  hold  yourself  in  readiness  to  move  out. 
You  can  command  your  own  prices,  and  you  do 
better  work  than  any  three  of  us." 

"Don't  tell  me  how  tempting  it  is.  I'll  stay 
here  to  look  after  Dick  for  a  while.  He's  as 
cheerful  as  a  bear  with  a  sore  head,  but  I  think 
he  likes  to  have  me  near  him." 

The  Nilghai  said  something  uncomplimentary 
about  soft-headed  fools  who  throw  away  their 
careers  for  other  fools.  Torpenhow  flushed 
angrily.  The  constant  strain  of  attendance  on 
Dick  had  worn  his  nerves  thin. 

"There  remains  a  third  fate,"  said  the  Keneu, 
thoughtfully.  "Consider  this,  and  be  not  larger 
fools  than  is  necessary.  Dick  is — or  rather  was 
— an  able-bodied  man  of  moderate  attractions  and 
a  certain  amount  of  audacity." 

"Oho!"  said  the  Nilghai,  who  remembered 
an  affair  at  Cairo.  "I  begin  to  see.— Torp,  I'm 
sorry." 

Torpenhow  nodded  forgiveness:  "You  were 
more  sorry  when  he  cut  you  out,  though. — Go 
on  Keneu." 

"I've  often  thought,  when  I've  seen  men  die 
out  in  the  desert,  that  if  the  news  could  be  sent 
through  the  world,  and  the  means  of  transport 
were  quick  enough,  there  would  be  one  woman 
at  least  at  each  man's  bedside." 


The  Light  that  Failed  235 

"There  would  be  some  mighty  quaint  revela- 
tions. Let  us  be  grateful  things  are  as  they  are," 
said  the  Nilghai. 

"Let  us  rather  reverently  consider  whether 
Torp's  three-cornered  ministrations  are  exactly 
what  Dick  needs  just  now. — What  do  you  think 
yourself,  Torp?" 

"  I  know  they  aren't.     But  what  can  I  do  ?" 

"Lay  the  matter  before  the  board.  We  are 
all  Dick's  friends  here.  You've  been  most  in  his 
life." 

"  But  I  picked  it  up  when  he  was  off  his  head." 

"The  greater  chance  of  its  being  true.  I 
thought  we  should  arrive.     Who  is  she?" 

Then  Torpenhow  told  a  tale  in  plain  words,  as 
a  special  correspondent  who  knows  how  to 
make  a  verbal  precis  should  tell  it.  The  men 
listened  without  interruption. 

"Is  it  possible  that  a  man  can  come  back 
across  the  years  to  his  calf-love  ? "  said  the  Ke- 
neu.     "Is  it  possible?" 

"  I  give  the  facts.  He  says  nothing  about  it 
now,  but  he  sits  fumbling  three  letters  from  her 
when  he  thinks  I'm  not  looking.  What  am  I  to 
do?" 

"Speak  to  him,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"Oh  yes!  Write  to  her, — I  don't  know  her 
full  name,  remember, — and  ask  her  to  accept  him 
out  of  pity.    I  believe  you  once  told  Dick  you 


236  The  Light  that  Failed 

were  sorry  for  him,  Nilghai.  You  remember 
what  happened,  eh  ?  Go  into  the  bedroom  and 
suggest  full  confession  and  an  appeal  to  this 
Maisie  girl,  whoever  she  is.  I  honestly  believe 
he'd  try  to  kill  you;  and  the  blindness  has  made 
him  rather  muscular." 

"  Torpenhow's  course  is  perfectly  clear,"  said 
the  Keneu.  "He  will  go  to  Vitry-sur-Marne, 
which  is  on  the  Bezieres-Landes  Railway, — single 
track  from  Tourgas.  The  Prussians  shelled  it  out 
in  '70  because  there  was  a  poplar  on  the  top  of  a 
hill  eighteen  hundred  yards  from  the  church  spire. 
There's  a  squadron  of  cavalry  quartered  there, — 
or  ought  to  be.  Where  this  studio  Torp  spoke 
about  may  be  I  cannot  tell.  That  is  Torp's  busi- 
ness. I  have  given  him  his  route.  He  will  dis- 
passionately explain  the  situation  to  the  girl,  and 
she  will  come  back  to  Dick, — the  more  especially 
because,  to  use  Dick's  words,  'there  is  nothing 
but  her  damned  obstinacy  to  keep  them  apart.' " 

"And  they  have  four  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds  a  year  between  'em.  Dick  never  lost  his 
head  for  figures,  even  in  his  delirium.  You 
haven't  the  shadow  of  an  excuse  for  not  going," 
said  the  Nilghai. 

Torpenhow  looked  very  uncomfortable.  "  But 
it's  absurd  and  impossible.  I  can't  drag  her  back 
by  the  hair." 

"Our  business — the  business  for  which  we 


The  Light  that  Failed  237 

draw  our  money — is  to  do  absurd  and  impossible 
things, — generally  with  no  reason  whatever  ex- 
cept to  amuse  the  public.  Here  we  have  a 
reason.  The  rest  doesn't  matter.  I  shall  share 
these  rooms  with  the  Nilghai  till  Torpenhow 
returns.  There  will  be  a  batch  of  unbridled 
'  specials '  coming  to  town  in*  a  little  while,  and 
these  will  serve  as  their  headquarters.  Another 
reason  for  sending  Torpenhow  away.  Thus 
Providence  helps  those  who  help  others,  and  " — 
here  the  Keneu  dropped  his  measured  speech  — 
"we  can't  have  you  tied  by  the  leg  to  Dick 
when  the  trouble  begins.  It's  your  only  chance 
of  getting  away;  and  Dick  will  be  grateful." 

"  He  will, — worse  luckl  I  can  but  go  and  try. 
I  can't  conceive  a  woman  in  her  senses  refusing 
Dick." 

"Talk  that  out  with  the  girl.  I  have  seen  you 
wheedle  an  angry  Mahdieh  woman  into  giving 
you  dates.  This  won't  be  a  tithe  as  difficult. 
You  had  better  not  be  here  to-morrow  afternoon, 
because  the  Nilghai  and  I  will  be  in  possession. 
It  is  an  order.     Obey." 

"Dick,"  said  Torpenhow  next  morning,  "can 
I  do  anything  for  you  ?" 

"No!     Leave  me  alone.     How  often  must 
remind  you  that  I'm  blind  ?  " 

"Nothing  I  could  go  for  to  fetch  for  to  earn 
for  to  bring  ?  " 


238  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  No.  Take  those  infernal  creaking  boots  of 
yours  away.'" 

"Poor  chap!"  said  Torpenhow  to  himself. 
"I  must  have  been  sitting  on  his  nerves  lately. 
He  wants  a  lighter  step."  Then,  aloud,  "Very 
well.  Since  you're  so  independent,  I'm  going  off 
for  four  or  five  days.  Say  good-bye  at  least. 
The  housekeeper  will  look  after  you,  and  Keneu 
has  my  rooms." 

Dick's  face  fell.  "You  won't  be  longer  than  a 
week  at  the  outside  ?  I  know  I'm  touched  in  the 
temper,  but  I  can't  get  on  without  you." 

"Can't  you?  You'll  have  to  do  without  me 
in  a  little  time,  and  you'll  be  glad  I'm  gone." 

Dick  felt  his  way  back  to  the  big  chair,  and 
wondered  what  these  things  might  mean.  He 
did  not  wish  to  be  tended  by  the  housekeeper, 
and  yet  Torpenhow's  constant  tendernesses 
jarred  on  him.  He  did  not  exactly  know  what 
he  wanted.  The  darkness  would  not  lift,  and 
Maisie's  unopened  letters  felt  worn  and  old  from 
much  handling.  He  could  never  read  them  for 
himself  as  long  as  life  endured;  but  Maisie  might 
have  sent  him  some  fresh  ones  to  play  with. 
The  Nilghai  entered  with  a  gift, — a  piece  of  red 
modeling-wax.  He  fancied  that  Dick  might  find 
interest  in  using  his  hands.  Dick  poked  and 
patted  the  stuff  for  a  few  minutes,  and,  "Is  it 
like  anything  in  the  world?"  he  said,  drearily. 


The  Light  that  Failed  239 

"Take  it  away.  I  may  get  the  touch  of  the 
blind  in  fifty  years.  Do  you  know  where  Tor- 
penhow  has  gone?" 

The  Nilghai  knew  nothing.  "We're  staying 
in  his  rooms  till  he  comes  back.  Can  we  do 
anything  for  you?" 

"  I'd  like  to  be  left  alone,  please.  Don't  think 
I'm  ungrateful;  but  I'm  best  alone." 

The  Nilghai  chuckled,  and  Dick  resumed  his 
drowsy  brooding  and  sullen  rebellion  against  fate. 
He  had  long  since  ceased  to  think  about  the  work 
he  had  done  in  the  old  days,  and  the  desire  to  do 
more  work  had  departed  from  him.  He  was  ex- 
ceedingly sorry  for  himself,  and  the  completeness 
of  his  tender  grief  soothed  him.  But  his  soul 
and  his  body  cried  for  Maisie, — Maisie  who 
would  understand.  His  mind  pointed  out  that 
Maisie,  having  her  own  work  to  do,  would  not 
care.  His  experience  had  taught  him  that  when 
money  was  exhausted  women  went  away,  and 
that  when  a  man  was  knocked  out  of  the  race 
the  others  trampled  on  him.  "Then  at  the 
least,"  said  Dick,  in  reply,  "she  could  use  me  as 
I  used  Binat, — for  some  sort  of  a  study.  I 
wouldn't  ask  more  than  to  be  near  her  again, 
even  though  I  knew  that  another  man  was  mak 
ing  love  to  her.     Ugh !  what  a  dog  I  am ! " 

A  voice  on  the  staircase  began  to  sing  joy 
fully  — 


,24o  The  Light  that  Failed 

When  we  go — go — go  away  from  here, 

Our  creditors  will  weep  and  they  will  wail, 
Our  absence  much  regretting  when  they  find  that  we've  been 
getting 

Out  of  England  by  next  Tuesday's  Indian  mail. 

Following  the  trampling  of  feet,  slamming  of 
Torpenhow's  door,  and  the  sound  of  voices  in 
strenuous  debate,  some  one  squeaked,  "And  see, 
you  good  fellows,  I  have  found  a  new  water- 
bottle, — firs'-class  patent — eh,  how  you  say? 
Open  himself  inside  out." 

Dick  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  knew  the  voice 
well.  "  That's  Cassavetti,  come  back  from  the 
Continent.  Now  I  know  why  Torp  went  away. 
There's  a  row  somewhere,  and — I'm  out  of  it!" 

The  Nilghai  commanded  silence  in  vain. 
"  That's  for  my  sake,"  Dick  said,  bitterly.  "  The 
birds  are  getting  ready  to  fly,  and  they  wouldn't 
tell  me.  I  can  hear  Morten-Sutherland  and 
Mackaye.  Half  the  War  Correspondents  in  Lon- 
don are  there; — and  I'm  out  of  it." 

He  stumbled  across  the  landing  and  plunged 
into  Torpenhow's  room.  He  could  feel  that  it 
was  full  of  men.  "Where's  the  trouble?"  said 
he.  "  In  the  Balkans  at  last  ?  Why  didn't  some 
one  tell  me  ?" 

"  We  thought  you  wouldn't  be  interested,"  said 
the  Nilghai,  shamefacedly.  "  It's  in  the  Soudan, 
as  usual." 


The  Light  that  Failed  241 

"You  lucky  dogs!  Let  me  sit  here  while  you 
talk.  1  shan't  be  a  skeleton  at  the  feast. — Cassa- 
vetti,  where  are  you  ?  Your  English  is  as  bad  as 
ever." 

Dick  was  led  into  a  chair.  He  heard  the  rustle 
of  the  maps,  and  the  talk  swept  forward,  carry- 
ing him  with  it.  Everybody  spoke  at  once,  dis- 
cussing press  censorships,  railway-routes,  trans- 
port, water-supply,  the  capacities  of  generals, — 
these  in  language  that  would  have  horrified  a 
trusting  public, — ranting,  asserting,  denouncing, 
and  laughing  at  the  top  of  their  voices.  There 
was  the  glorious  certainty  of  war  in  the  Soudan 
at  any  moment.  The  Nilghai  said  so,  and  it  was 
well  to  be  in  readiness.  The  Keneu  had  tele- 
graphed to  Cairo  for  horses;  Cassavetti  had  stolen 
a  perfectly  inaccurate  list  of  troops  that  would  be 
ordered  forward,  and  was  reading  it  out  amid 
profane  interruptions,  and  the  Keneu  introduced 
to  Dick  some  man  unknown  who  would  be  em- 
ployed as  war  artist  by  the  Central  Southern  Syn- 
dicate. "It's  his  first  outing,"  said  the  Keneu. 
"Give  him  some  tips — about  riding  camels." 

"Oh,  those  camels !"  groaned  Cassavetti.  "I 
shall  learn  to  ride  him  again,  and  now  I  am  so 
much  all  soft !  Listen,  you  good  fellows.  I  know 
your  military  arrangement  very  well.  There  will 
go  the  Royal  Argalshire  Sutherlanders.  So  it  was 
read  to  me  upon  best  authority." 


242  The  Light  that  Failed 

A  roar  of  laughter  interrupted  him. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  the  Nilghai.  "  The  lists  aren't 
even  made  out  in  the  War  Office." 

"Will  there  be  any  force  at  Suakin?"  said  a 
voice. 

Then  the  outcries  redoubled,  and  grew  mixed, 
thus:  "How  many  Egyptian  troops  will  they 
use  ? — God  help  the  Fellaheen ! — There's  a  railway 
in  Plumstead  marshes  doing  duty  as  a  fives-court. 
— We  shall  have  the  Suakin-Berber  line  built  at 
last. — Canadian  voyagers  are  too  careful.  Give 
me  a  half-drunk  Krooman  in  a  whale-boat. — Who 
commands  the  Desert  column  ? — No,  they  never 
blew  up  the  big  rock  in  the  Ghineh  bend.  We 
shall  have  to  be  hauled  up,  as  usual. — Somebody 
tell  me  if  there's  an  Indian  contingent,  or  I'll 
break  everybody's  head. — Don't  tear  the  map  in 
two. — It's  a  war  of  occupation,  I  tell  you,  to  con- 
nect with  the  African  companies  in  the  South. — 
There's  Guinea-worm  in  most  of  the  wells  on  that 
route."  Then  the  Nilghai,  despairing  of  peace, 
bellowed  like  a  fog-horn  and  beat  upon  the  table 
with  both  hands. 

"But  what  becomes  of  Torpenhow?"  said 
Dick,  in  the  silence  that  followed. 

"Torp's  in  abeyance  just  now.  He's  off  love- 
making  somewhere,  I  suppose,"  said  the  Nilghai. 

"  He  said  he  was  going  to  stay  at  home,"  said 
the  Keneu. 


The  Light  that  Failed  243 

"  Is  he  ?  "  said  Dick  with  an  oath.  "  He  won't. 
I'm  not  much  good  now,  but  if  you  and  the  Nil- 
ghai  hold  him  down  I'll  engage  to  trample  on  him 
till  he  sees  reason.  He  stay  behind,  indeed  1 
He's  the  best  of  you  all.  There'll  be  some  tough 
work  by  Omdurman.  We  shall  come  there  to 
stay,  this  time.  But  I  forgot.  I  wish  1  were 
going  with  you." 

"So  do  we  all,  Dickie,"  said  the  Keneu. 

''And  I  most  of  all,"  said  the  new  artist  of 
the  Central  Southern  Syndicate.  "Could  you 
tell  me  " — 

"I'll  give  you  one  piece  of  advice,"  Dick  an- 
swered, moving  toward  the  door.  "  If  you  hap- 
pen to  be  cut  over  the  head  in  a  scrimmage,  don't 
guard.  Tell  the  man  to  go  on  cutting.  You'll 
find  it  cheapest  in  the  end.  Thanks  for  letting 
me  look  in." 

"  There's  grit  in  Dick,"  said  the  Nilghai,  an  hour 
later,  when  the  room  was  emptied  of  all  save  the 
Keneu. 

"It  was  the  sacred  call  of  the  war-trumpet. 
Did  you  notice  how  he  answered  to  it  ?  Poor 
fellow!    Let's  look  at  him,"  said  the  Keneu. 

The  excitement  of  the  talk  had  died  away. 
Dick  was  sitting  by  the  studio  table,  with  his 
head  on  his  arms,  when  the  men  came  in.  He 
did  not  change  his  position. 

"  It  hurts,"  he  moaned.     "  God  forgive  me,  but 


244  The  Light  that  Failed 

it  hurts  cruelly;  and  yet,  y'know,  the  world  has 
a  knack  of  spinning  round  all  by  itself.  Shall  I 
see  Torp  before  he  goes  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes.     You'll  see  him,"  said  the  Nilghai. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  sun  went  down  an  hour  ago, 

I  wonder  if  I  face  toward  home, 
If  I  lost  my  way  in  the  light  of  day 

How  shall  I  find  it  now  night  is  come  ? 

— Old  Song. 

"  Maisie,  come  to  bed." 

"  It's  so  hot  I  can't  sleep.    Don't  worry." 

Maisie  put  her  elbows  on  the  window-sill  and 
looked  at  the  moonlight  on  the  straight,  poplar- 
flanked  road.  Summer  had  come  upon  Vitry- 
sur-Marne  and  parched  it  to  the  bone.  The  grass 
was  dry-burned  in  the  meadows,  the  clay  by  the 
bank  of  the  river  was  caked  to  brick,  the  roadside 
flowers  were  long  since  dead,  and  the  roses  in 
the  garden  hung  withered  on  their  stalks.  The 
heat  in  the  little  low  bedroom  under  the  eaves 
was  almost  intolerable.  The  very  moonlight  on 
the  wall  of  Kami's  studio  across  the  road  seemed 
to  make  the  night  hotter,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
big  bell-handle  by  the  closed  gate  cast  a  bar  of 
inky  black  that  caught  Maisie's  eye  and  annoyed 
her. 

"Horrid  thing!  It  should  be  all  white,"  she 
murmured.  "  And  the  gate  isn't  in  the  middle 
of  the  wall,  either.  I  never  noticed  that  before." 
245 


246  The  Light  that  Failed 

Maisie  was  hard  to  please  at  that  hour.  First, 
the  heat  of  the  past  few  weeks  had  worn  her 
down;  secondly,  her  work,  and  particularly  the 
study  of  a  female  head  intended  to  represent  the 
Melancolia  and  not  finished  in  time  for  the  Salon, 
was  unsatisfactory;  thirdly,  Kami  had  said  as 
much  two  days  before;  fourthly, — but  so  com- 
pletely fourthly  that  it  was  hardly  worth  think- 
ing about, — Dick,  her  property,  had  not  written 
to  her  for  more  than  six  weeks.  She  was  angry 
with  the  heat,  with  Kami,  and  with  her  work, 
but  she  was  exceedingly  angry  with  Dick. 

She  had  written  to  him  three  times, — each  time 
proposing  a  fresh  treatment  of  her  Melancolia. 
Dick  had  taken  no  notice  of  these  communica- 
tions. She  had  resolved  to  write  no  more.  When 
she  returned  to  England  in  the  autumn — for  her 
pride's  sake  she  could  not  return  earlier — she 
would  speak  to  him.  She  missed  the  Sunday 
afternoon  conferences  more  than  she  cared  to  ad- 
mit. All  that  Kami  said  was,  "  Continue^,  mad- 
emoiselle, continue^  tou/ours,"  and  he  had  been 
repeating  his  wearisome  counsel  through  the  hot 
summer,  exactly  like  a  cicala, — an  old  grey  cicala 
in  a  black  alpaca  coat,  white  trousers,  and  a  huge 
felt  hat.  But  Dick  had  tramped  masterfully  up 
and  down  her  little  studio  north  of  the  cool  green 
London  park,  and  had  said  things  ten  times 
worse  than  continue^,  before  he  snatched  the 


The  Light  that  Failed  247 

brush  out  of  her  hand  and  showed  her  where  her 
error  lay.  His  last  letter,  Maisie  remembered, 
contained  some  trivial  advice  about  not  sketch- 
ing in  the  sun  or  drinking  water  at  wayside 
farmhouses;  and  he  had  said  that  not  once,  but 
three  times, — as  if  he  did  not  know  that  Maisie 
could  take  care  of  herself. 

But  what  was  he  doing,  that  he  could  not 
trouble  to  write?  A  murmur  of  voices  in  the 
road  made  her  lean  from  the  window.  A  cav- 
alryman of  the  little  garrison  in  the  town  was 
talking  to  Kami's  cook.  The  moonlight  glittered 
on  the  scabbard  of  his  sabre,  which  he  was  hold- 
ing in  his  hand  lest  it  should  clank  inopportunely. 
The  cook's  cap  cast  deep  shadows  on  her  face, 
which  was  close  to  the  conscript's.  He  slid  his 
arm  round  her  waist,  and  there  followed  the 
sound  of  a  kiss. 

"  Faugh! "  said  Maisie,  stepping  back. 

"What's  that?"  said  the  red-haired  girl,  who 
was  tossing  uneasily  outside  her  bed. 

"Only  a  conscript  kfssing  the  cook,"  said 
Maisie.  "They've  gone  away  now."  She  leaned 
out  of  the  window  again,  and  put  a  shawl  over 
her  nightgown  to  guard  against  chills.  There 
was  a  very  small  night-breeze  abroad,  and  a  sun- 
baked rose  below  nodded  its  head  as  one  who 
knew  unutterable  secrets.  Was  it  possible  that 
Dick  should  turn  his  thoughts  from  her  work  and 


248  The  Light  that  Failed 

his  own  and  descend  to  the  degradation  of  Su- 
zanne and  the  conscript  ?  He  could  not!  The  rose 
nodded  its  head  and  one  leaf  therewith.  It 
looked  like  a  naughty  little  devil  scratching  its 
ear.  Dick  could  not,  "because,"  thought  Maisie, 
"he  is  mine, — mine, — mine.  He  said  he  was. 
I'm  sure  I  don't  care  what  he  does.  It  will  only 
spoil  his  work  if  he  does;  and  it  will  spoil  mine 
too." 

The  rose  continued  to  nod  in  the  futile  way 
peculiar  to  flowers.  There  was  no  earthly  reason 
why  Dick  should  not  disport  himself  as  he  chose, 
except  that  he  was  called  by  Providence,  which 
was  Maisie,  to  assist  Maisie  in  her  work.  And 
her  work  was  the  preparation  of  pictures  that 
went  sometimes  to  English  provincial  exhibi- 
tions, as  the  notices  in  the  scrapbook  proved, 
and  that  were  invariably  rejected  by  the  Salon 
when  Kami  was  plagued  into  allowing  her  to 
send  them  up.  Her  work  in  the  future,  it  seemed, 
would  be  the  preparation  of  pictures  on  exactly 
similar  lines  which  would  be  rejected  in  exactly 
the  same  way  — 

The  red-haired  girl  threshed  distressfully  across 
the  sheets.  "  It's  too  hot  to  sleep,"  she  moaned; 
and  the  interruption  jarred. 

Exactly  the  same  way.  Then  she  would  di- 
vide her  years  between  the  little  studio  in  Eng- 
land and  Kami's  big  studio  at  Vitry-sur-Marne. 


The  Light  that  Failed  249 

No,  she  would  go  to  another  master,  who  should 
force  her  into  the  success  that  was  her  right,  if 
patient  toil  and  desperate  endeavor  gave  one  a 
right  to  anything.  Dick  had  told  her  that  he  had 
worked  ten  years  to  understand  his  craft.  She 
had  worked  ten  years,  and  ten  years  were  noth- 
ing, Dick  had  said  that  ten  years  were  nothing, 
— but  that  was  in  regard  to  herself  only.  He  had 
said — this  very  man  who  could  not  find  time  to 
write — that  he  would  wait  ten  years  for  her,  and 
that  she  was  bound  to  come  back  to  him  sooner 
or  later.  He  had  said  this  in  the  absurd  letter 
about  sunstroke  and  diphtheria;  and  then  he  had 
stopped  writing.  He  was  wandering  up  and 
down  moonlit  streets,  kissing  cooks.  She  would 
like  to  lecture  him  now, — not  in  her  nightgown, 
of  course,  but  properly  dressed,  severely  and 
from  a  height.  Yet  if  he  was  kissing  other  girls 
he  certainly  would  not  care  whether  she  lectured 
him  or  not.  He  would  laugh  at  her.  Very  good. 
She  would  go  back  to  her  studio  and  prepare 
pictures  that  went,  etc.,  etc.  The  mill-wheel  of 
thought  swung  round  slowly,  that  no  section  of 
it  might  be  slurred  over,  and  the  red-haired  girl 
tossed  and  turned  behind  her. 

Maisie  put  her  chin  in  her  hands  and  decided 
that  there  could  be  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  vil- 
lany  of  Dick.  To  justify  herself,  she  began,  un- 
womanly, to  weigh  the  evidence.    There  was  a 


250  The  Light  that  Failed 

boy,  and  he  had  said  he  loved  her.  And  he 
kissed  her, — kissed  her  on  the  cheek, — by  a  yel- 
low sea-poppy  that  nodded  its  head  exactly  like 
the  maddening  dry  rose  in  the  garden.  Then 
there  was  an  interval,  and  men  had  told  her 
that  they  loved  her— just  when  she  was  busiest 
with  her  work.  Then  the  boy  came  back,  and 
at  their  very  second  meeting  had  told  her  that  he 
loved  her.  Then  he  had —  But  there  was  no 
end  to  the  things  he  had  done.  He  had  given 
her  his  time  and  his  powers.  He  had  spoken  to 
her  of  Art,  housekeeping,  technique,  teacups,  the 
abuse  of  pickles  as  a  stimulant, — that  was  rude, 
— sable  hair-brushes, — he  had  given  her  the  best 
in  her  stock, — she  used  them  daily;  he  had  given 
her  advice  that  she  profited  by,  and  now  and 
again — a  look.  Such  a  look!  The  look  of  a 
beaten  hound  waiting  for  the  word  to  crawl  to 
his  mistress's  feet.  In  return  she  had  given  him 
nothing  whatever,  except — here  she  brushed  her 
mouth  against  the  open-work  sleeve  of  her  night- 
gown— the  privilege  of  kissing  her  once.  And 
on  the  mouth,  too.  Disgraceful!  Was  that  not 
enough,  and  more  than  enough  ?  and  if  it  was 
not,  had  he  not  cancelled  the  debt  by  not  writing 
and — probably  kissing  other  girls  ? 

"  Maisie,  you'll  catch  a  chill.  Do  go  and  lie 
down,"  said  the  wearied  voice  of  her  companion. 
"I  can't  sleep  a  wink  with  you  at  the  window." 


The  Light  that  Failed  351 

Maisie  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  did  not  an- 
swer. She  was  reflecting  on  the  meannesses  of 
Dick,  and  on  other  meannesses  with  which  he 
had  nothing  to  do.  The  remorseless  moonlight 
would  not  let  her  sleep.  It  lay  on  the  skylight 
of  the  studio  across  the  road  in  cold  silver;  she 
stared  at  it  intently  and  her  thoughts  began  to 
slide  one  into  the  other.  The  shadow  of  the  big 
bell-handle  in  the  wall  grew  short,  lengthened 
again,  and  faded  out  as  the  moon  went  down 
behind  the  pasture  and  a  hare  came  limping 
home  across  the  road.  Then  the  dawn-wind 
washed  through  the  upland  grasses,  and  brought 
coolness  with  it,  and  the  cattle  lowed  by  the 
drought-shrunk  river.  Maisie's  head  fell  for- 
ward on  the  window-sill,  and  the  tangle  of 
black  hair  covered  her  arms. 

"  Maisie,  wake  up.    You'll  catch  a  chill." 

"Yes,  dear;  yes,  dear."  She  staggered  to  her 
bed  like  a  wearied  child,  and  as  she  buried  her 
face  in  the  pillows  she  muttered,  "I  think — I 
think.    .    .    .     But  he  ought  to  have  written." 

Day  brought  the  routine  of  the  studio,  the 
smell  of  paint  and  turpentine,  and  the  monoto- 
nous wisdom  of  Kami,  who  was  a  leaden  artist, 
but  a  golden  teacher  if  the  pupil  were  only  in 
sympathy  with  him.  Maisie  was  not  in  sympa- 
thy that  day,  and  she  waited  impatiently  for  the 
end  of  the  work.    She  knew  when  it  was  com- 


252  The  Light  that  Failed 

ing;  for  Kami  would  gather  his  black  alpaca  coat 
into  a  bunch  behind  him,  and,  with  faded  blue 
eyes  that  saw  neither  pupils  nor  canvas,  look 
back  into  the  past  to  recall  the  history  of  one 
Binat.  "You  have  all  done  not  so  badly,"  he 
would  say.  "  But  you  shall  remember  that  it  is 
not  enough  to  have  the  method,  and  the  art,  and 
the  power,  nor  even  that  which  is  touch,  but  you 
shall  have  also  the  conviction  that  nails  the  work 
to  the  wall.  Of  the  so  many  I  have  taught," — 
here  the  students  would  begin  to  unfix  drawing- 
pins  or  get  their  tubes  together, — "the  very  so 
many  that  I  have  taught,  the  best  was  Binat.  All 
that  comes  of  the  study  and  the  work  and  the 
knowledge  was  to  him  even  when  he  came. 
After  he  left  me  he  should  have  done  all  that 
could  be  done  with  the  color,  the  form,  and  the 
knowledge.  Only,  he  had  not  the  conviction. 
So  to-day  I  hear  no  more  of  Binat, — the  best  of 
my  pupils, — and  that  is  long  ago.  So  to-day, 
too,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  no  more  of  me. 
Continue^,  mesdemoiselles,  and,  above  all,  with 
conviction." 

He  went  into  the  garden  to  smoke  and  mourn 
over  the  lost  Binat  as  the  pupils  dispersed  to  their 
several  cottages  or  loitered  in  the  studio  to  make 
plans  for  the  cool  of  the  afternoon. 

Maisie  looked  at  her  very  unhappy  Melancolia, 
restrained  a  desire  to  grimace  before  it,  and  was 


The  Light  that  Failed  253 

hurrying  across  the  road  to  write  a  letter  to  Dick, 
when  she  was  aware  of  a  large  man  on  a  white 
troop-horse.  How  Torpenhow  had  managed  in 
the  course  of  twenty  hours  to  find  his  way  to  the 
hearts  of  the  cavalry  officers  in  quarters  at  Vitry- 
sur-Mame,  to  discuss  with  them  the  certainty  of 
a  glorious  revenge  for  France,  to  reduce  the  colo- 
nel to  tears  of  pure  affability,  and  to  borrow  the 
best  horse  in  the  squadron  for  the  journey  to 
Kami's  studio,  is  a  mystery  that  only  special  cor- 
respondents can  unravel. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he.  "  It  seems  an 
absurd  question  to  ask,  but  the  fact  is  that  I  don't 
know  her  by  any  other  name:  Is  there  any  young 
lady  here  that  is  called  Maisie  ?" 

"I  am  Maisie,"  was  the  answer  from  the 
depths  of  a  great  sun-hat. 

"I  ought  to  introduce  myself,"  he  said,  as  the 
horse  capered  in  the  blinding  white  dust.  "My 
name  is  Torpenhow.  Dick  Heldar  is  my  best 
friend,  and — and — the  fact  is  that  he  has  gone 
blind." 

"  Blindl  "  said  Maisie,  stupidly.  "  He  can't  be 
blind." 

"He  has  been  stone-blind  for  nearly  two 
months." 

Maisie  lifted  up  her  face,  and  it  was  pearly 
white.  "No!  No!  Not  blind!  I  won't  have 
him  blindl" 


254  The  Light  that  Failed 

"Would  you  care  to  see  for  yourself?''  said 
Torpenhow. 

"Now, — at  once?" 

"Oh  no!  The  Paris  train  doesn't  go  through 
this  place  till  eight  to-night.  There  will  be  am- 
ple time." 

' '  Did  Mr.  Heldar  send  you  to  me  ?  " 

"Certainly  not.  Dick  wouldn't  do  that  sort 
of  thing.  He's  sitting  in  his  studio,  turning  over 
some  letters  that  he  can't  read  because  he's 
blind." 

There  was  a  sound  of  choking  from  the  sun- 
hat.  Maisie  bowed  her  head  and  went  into  the 
cottage,  where  the  red-haired  girl  was  on  a  sofa, 
complaining  of  a  headache. 

"  Dick's  blind!  "  said  Maisie,  taking  her  breath 
quickly  as  she  steadied  herself  against  a  chair- 
back.     "My  Dick's  blind!" 

"  What  ?  "    The  girl  was  on  the  sofa  no  longer. 

"A  man  has  come  from  England  to  tell  me. 
He  hasn't  written  to  me  for  six  weeks." 

"  Are  you  going  to  him  ?" 

"I  must  think." 

"Think!  /  should  go  back  to  London  and  see 
him,  and  I  should  kiss  his  eyes  and  kiss  them 
and  kiss  them  until  they  got  well  again!  If  you 
don't  go  I  shall.  Oh,  what  am  I  talking  about  ? 
You  wicked  little  idiot!  Go  to  him  at  once. 
Go!" 


The  Light  that  Failed  255 

Torpenhow's  neck  was  blistering,  but  he  pre- 
served a  smile  of  infinite  patience  as  Maisie  ap- 
peared bare-headed  in  the  sunshine. 

"I  am  coming,"  said  she,  her  eyes  on  the 
ground. 

"You  will  be  at  Vitry  Station,  then,  at  seven 
this  evening."  This  was  an  order  delivered  by 
one  who  was  used  to  being  obeyed.  Maisie 
said  nothing,  but  she  felt  grateful  that  there  was 
no  chance  of  disputing  with  this  big  man  who 
took  everything  for  granted  and  managed  a 
squealing  horse  with  one  hand.  She  returned  to 
the  red-haired  girl,  who  was  weeping  bitterly, 
and  between  tears,  kisses, — very  few  of  those, — 
— menthol,  packing,  and  an  interview  with  Kami, 
the  sultry  afternoon  wore  away.  Thought  might 
come  afterward.  Her  present  duty  was  to  go  to 
Dick, — Dick  who  owned  the  wondrous  friend 
and  sat  in  the  dark  playing  with  her  unopened 
letters. 

"  But  what  will  you  do  ?"  she  said  to  her  com- 
panion. 

"I?  Oh,  I  shall  stay  here  and — finish  your 
Melancolia,"  she  said,  smiling  pitifully.  "Write 
to  me  afterward." 

That  night  there  ran  a  legend  through  Virty- 
sur-Marne  of  a  mad  Englishman,  doubtless  suf- 
fering from  sunstroke,  who  had  drunk  all  thf 
officers  of  the  garrison  under  the  table,  had  bor- 


256  The  Light  that  Failed 

rowed  a  horse  from  the  lines,  and  had  then  and 
there  eloped,  after  the  English  custom,  with  one 
of  those  more  than  mad  English  girls  who  drew 
pictures  down  there  under  the  care  of  that  good 
Monsieur  Kami. 

"They  are  very  droll,"  said  Suzanne  to  the 
conscript  in  the  moonlight  by  the  studio  wall. 
"She  walked  always  with  those  big  eyes  that 
saw  nothing,  and  yet  she  kisses  me  on  both 
cheeks  as  though  she  were  my  sister,  and  gives 
me — see — ten  francs ! " 

The  conscript  levied  a  contribution  on  both 
gifts;  for  he  prided  himself  on  being  a  good 
soldier. 

Torpenhow  spoke  very  little  to  Maisie  during 
the  journey  to  Calais ;  but  he  was  careful  to  at- 
tend to  all  her  wants,  to  get  her  a  compartment 
entirely  to  herself,  and  to  leave  her  alone.  He 
was  amazed  at  the  ease  with  which  the  matter 
had  been  accomplished. 

"The  safest  thing  would  be  to  let  her  think 
things  out.  By  Dick's  showing, — when  he  was 
off  his  head, — she  must  have  ordered  him  about 
very  thoroughly.  Wonder  how  she  likes  being 
under  orders." 

Maisie  never  told.  She  sat  in  the  empty  com- 
partment often  with  her  eyes  shut,  that  she  might 
realize  the  sensation  of  blindness.  It  was  an 
order  that  she  should  return  to  London  swiftly, 


The  Light  that  Failed  257 

and  she  found  herself  at  last  almost  beginning  to 
enjoy  the  situation.  This  was  better  than  look- 
ing after  luggage  and  a  red-haired  friend  who 
never  took  any  interest  in  her  surroundings. 
But  there  appeared  to  be  a  feeling  in  the  air  that 
she,  Maisie, — of  all  people, — was  in  disgrace. 
Therefore  she  justified  her  conduct  to  herself 
with  great  success,  till  Torpenhow  came  up  to 
her  on  the  steamer  and  without  preface  began  to 
tell  the  story  of  Dick's  blindness,  suppressing  a 
few  details,  but  dwelling  at  length  on  the  mis- 
eries of  delirium.  He  stopped  before  he  reached 
the  end,  as  though  he  had  lost  interest  in  the  sub- 
ject, and  went  forward  to  smoke.  Maisie  was 
furious  with  him  and  with  herself. 

She  was  hurried  on  from  Dover  to  London  al- 
most before  she  could  ask  for  breakfast,  and — she 
was  past  any  feeling  of  indignation  now — was 
bidden  curtly  to  wait  in  a  hall  at  the  foot  of  some 
lead-covered  stairs  while  Torpenhow  went  up  to 
make  inquiries.  Again  the  knowledge  that  she 
was  being  treated  like  a  naughty  little  girl  made 
her  pale  cheeks  flame.  It  was  all  Dick's  fault  for 
being  so  stupid  as  to  go  blind. 

Torpenhow  led  her  up  to  a  shut  door,  which  he 
opened  very  softly.  Dick  was  sitting  by  the 
window,  with  his  chin  on  his  chest.  There  were 
three  envelopes  in  his  hand,  and  he  turned  them 
over  and  over.     The  big  man  who  gave  orders 


258  The  Light  that  Failed 

was  no  longer  by  her  side,  and  the  studio  door 
snapped  behind  her. 

Dick  thrust  the  letters  into  his  pocket  as  he 
heard  the  sound.  "Hullo,  Torp!  Is  that  you? 
I've  been  so  lonely." 

His  voice  had  taken  the  peculiar  flatness  of  the 
blind.  Maisie  pressed  herself  up  into  a  corner  of 
the  room.  Her  heart  was  beating  furiously,  and 
she  put  one  hand  on  her  breast  to  keep  it  quiet. 
Dick  was  staring  directly  at  her,  and  she  realized 
for  the  first  time  that  he  was  blind.  Shutting  her 
eyes  in  a  railway-carriage  to  open  them  when  she 
pleased  was  child's  play.  This  man  was  blind 
though  his  eyes  were  wide  open. 

"Torp,  is  that  you?  They  said  you  were 
coming."  Dick  looked  puzzled  and  a  little  irri- 
tated at  the  silence. 

"No:  it's  only  me,"  was  the  answer,  in  a 
strained  little  whisper.  Maisie  could  hardly  move 
her  lips. 

"H'm!"  said  Dick,  composedly,  without  mov- 
ing. "This  is  a  new  phenomenon.  Darkness 
I'm  getting  used  to;  but  I  object  to  hearing 
voices." 

Was  he  mad,  then,  as  well  as  blind,  that  he 
talked  to  himself?  Maisie's  heart  beat  more 
wildly,  and  she  breathed  in  gasps.  Dick  rose 
and  began  to  feel  his  way  across  the  room,  touch- 
ing each  table  and  chair  as  he  passed.     Once  he 


The  Light  that  Failed  259 

caught  his  foot  on  a  rug,  and  swore,  dropping  on 
his  knees  to  feel  what  the  obstruction  might  be. 
Maisie  remembered  him  walking  in  the  Park  as 
though  all  the  earth  belonged  to  him,  tramping 
up  and  down  her  studio  two  months  ago,  and 
flying  up  the  gangway  of  the  Channel  steamer. 
The  beating  of  her  heart  was  making  her  sick,  and 
Dick  was  coming  nearer,  guided  by  the  sound  of 
her  breathing.  She  put  out  a  hand  mechanically  to 
ward  him  off  or  to  draw  him  to  herself,  she  did 
not  know  which.  It  touched  his  chest,  and  he 
stepped  back  as  though  he  had  been  shot. 

"It's  Maisie! "  said  he,  with  a  dry  sob.     "  What 
are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  I  came — I  came — to  see  you,  please." 

Dick's  lips  closed  firmly. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  then?    You  see,  I've 
had  some  bother  with  my  eyes,  and  " — 

"I  know.     I  know.     Why   didn't  you  tell 
me?" 

"I  couldn't  write." 

"  You  might  have  told  Mr.  Torpenhow." 

"  What  has  he  to  do  with  my  affairs  ?" 

"He — he  brought  me  from  Vitry-sur-Marne. 
He  thought  I  ought  to  see  you." 

"Why,  what  has  happened?    Can  I  do  any 
thing  for  you?    No,  I  can't.    I  forgot." 

"  Oh,  Dick,  I'm  so  sorry!    I've  come  to  tell  you, 
and —    Let  me  take  you  back  to  your  chair." 


36o  77k  Light  that  Failed 

"Don't!  I'm  not  a  child.  You  only  do  that 
out  of  pity.  I  never  meant  to  tell  you  anything 
about  it.  I'm  no  good  now.  I'm  down  and 
done  for.     Let  me  alone! " 

He  groped  back  to  his  chair,  his  chest  laboring 
as  he  sat  down. 

Maisie  watched  him,  and  the  fear  went  out  of 
her  heart,  to  be  followed  by  a  very  bitter  shame. 
He  had  spoken  a  truth  that  had  been  hidden  from 
the  girl  through  every  step  of  the  impetuous  flight 
to  London ;  for  he  was,  indeed,  down  and  done  for 
— masterful  no  longer  but  rather  a  little  abject; 
neither  an  artist  stronger  than  she,  nor  a  man  to 
be  looked  up  to — only  some  blind  one  that  sat  in 
a  chair  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  crying.  She 
was  immensely  and  unfeignedly  sorry  for  him — 
more  sorry  than  she  had  ever  been  for  any  one  in 
her  life,  but  not  sorry  enough  to  deny  his  words. 
So  she  stood  still  and  felt  ashamed  and  a  little 
hurt,  because  she  had  honestly  intended  that  her 
journey  should  end  triumphantly;  and  now  she 
was  only  filled  with  pity  most  startlingly  distinct 
from  love. 

"Well?"  said  Dick,  his  face  steadily  turned 
away.  "  I  never  meant  to  worry  you  any  more. 
What's  the  matter?" 

He  was  conscious  that  Maisie  was  catching  her 
breath,  but  was  as  unprepared  as  herself  for  the 
torrent  of  emotion  that  followed.    People  who 


The  Light  that  Failed  a6i 

cannot  cry  easily  weep  unrestrainedly  when  the 
fountains  of  the  great  deep  are  broken  up.  She 
had  dropped  into  a  chair  and  was  sobbing  with 
her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 

"  I  can't — I  can't! "  she  cried,  desperately.  "  In- 
deed, I  can't.  It  isn't  my  fault.  I'm  so  sorry. 
Oh,  Dickie,  I'm  so  sorry." 

Dick's  shoulders  straightened  again,  for  the 
words  lashed  like  a  whip.  Still  the  sobbing  con- 
tinued. It  is  not  good  to  realize  that  you  have 
failed  in  the  hour  of  trial  or  flinched  before  the 
mere  possibility  of  making  sacrifices. 

"I  do  despise  myself — indeed  I  do.  But  I 
can't.  Oh,  Dickie,  you  wouldn't  ask  me — would 
you  ?  "  wailed  Maisie. 

She  looked  up  for  a  minute,  and  by  chance  it 
happened  that  Dick's  eyes  fell  on  hers.  The  un- 
shaven face  was  very  white  and  set,  and  the  lips 
were  trying  to  force  themselves  into  a  smile. 
But  it  was  the  worn-out  eyes  that  Maisie  feared. 
Her  Dick  had  gone  blind  and  left  in  his  place 
some  one  that  she  could  hardly  recognize  till  he 
spoke. 

"Who  is  asking  you  to  do  anything,  Maisie? 
I  told  you  how  it  would  be.  What's  the  use  of 
worrying?  For  pity's  sake  don't  cry  like  that;  it 
isn't  worth  it." 

"You  don't  know  how  I  hate  myself.  Oh, 
Dick,  help  me — help  me!"    The  passion  of  tears 


262  The  Light  that  Failed 

had  grown  beyond  her  control  and  was  begin- 
ning to  alarm  the  man.  He  stumbled  forward 
and  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  her  head  fell  on 
his  shoulder. 

"Hush,  dear,  hush!  Don't  cry.  You're  quite 
right,  and  you've  nothing  to  reproach  yourself 
with — you  never  had.  You're  only  a  little  upset 
by  the  journey,  and  I  don't  suppose  you've  had 
any  breakfast.  What  a  brute  Torp  was  to  bring 
you  over." 

"I  wanted  to  come.  I  did  indeed,"  she  pro- 
tested. 

"  Very  well.  And  now  you've  come  and  seen, 
and  I'm — immensely  grateful.  When  you're 
better  you  shall  go  away  and  get  something  to 
eat.  What  sort  of  a  passage  did  you  have  com- 
ing over  ? " 

Maisie  was  crying  more  subduedly,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  glad  that  she  had  something  to 
lean  against.  Dick  patted  her  on  the  shoulder 
tenderly  but  clumsily,  for  he  was  not  quite  sure 
where  her  shoulder  might  be. 

She  drew  herself  out  of  his  arms  at  last  and 
waited,  trembling  and  most  unhappy.  He  had 
felt  his  way  to  the  window  to  put  the  width  of 
the  room  between  them,  and  to  quiet  a  little  the 
tumult  in  his  heart. 

"  Are  you  better  now  ?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  but — don't  you  hate  me?" 


The  Light  that  Failed  26} 

"I  hate  you?    My  God!    I?" 

"  Isn't — isn't  there  anything  I  could  do  for  you, 
then  ?  I'll  stay  here  in  England  to  do  it,  if  you 
like.  Perhaps  I  could  come  and  see  you  some- 
times." 

"  I  think  not,  dear.  It  would  be  kindest  not  to 
see  me  any  more,  please.  I  don't  want  to  seem 
rude,  but — don't  you  think — perhaps  you  had 
almost  better  go  now." 

He  was  conscious  that  he  could  not  bear  him- 
self as  a  man  if  the  strain  continued  much  longer. 

"  I  don't  deserve  anything  else.  I'll  go,  Dick. 
Oh,  I'm  so  miserable." 

"Nonsense.  You've  nothing  to  worry  about; 
I'd  tell  you  if  you  had.  Wait  a  moment,  dear. 
I've  got  something  to  give  you  first.  I  meant  it 
for  you  ever  since  this  little  trouble  began.  It's 
my  Melancolia;  she  was  a  beauty  when  I  last  saw 
her.  You  can  keep  her  for  me,  and  if  ever 
you're  poor  you  can  sell  her.  She's  worth  a  few 
hundreds  at  any  state  of  the  market."  He  groped 
among  his  canvases.  "She's  framed  in  black. 
Is  this  a  black  frame  that  I  have  my  hand  on  ? 
There  she  is.    What  do  you  think  of  her  ?  " 

He  turned  a  scarred  formless  muddle  of  paint 
toward  Maisie,  and  the  eyes  strained  as  though 
they  would  catch  her  wonder  and  surprise.  One 
thing  and  one  thing  only  could  she  do  for  him. 

"Well?" 


264  The  Light  thai  Failed 

The  voice  was  fuller  and  more  rounded,  be- 
cause the  man  knew  he  was  speaking  of  his  best 
work.  Maisie  looked  at  the  blur,  and  a  lunatic 
desire  to  laugh  caught  her  by  the  throat.  But 
for  Dick's  sake — whatever  this  mad  blankness 
might  mean — she  must  make  no  sign.  Her  voice 
choked  with  hard-held  tears  as  she  answered, 
still  gazing  on  the  wreck  — 

"Oh,  Dick,  it  is  good!" 

He  heard  the  little  hysterical  gulp  and  took  il 
for  tribute.  "Won't  you  have  it,  then?  I'll 
send  it  over  to  your  house  if  you  will." 

"I?  Oh  yes— thank  you.  Ha!  ha!"  If  she 
did  not  fly  at  once  the  laughter  that  was  worse 
than  tears  would  kill  her.  She  turned  and  ran, 
choking  and  blinded,  down  the  staircases  that 
were  empty  of  life  to  take  refuge  in  a  cab  and  go 
to  her  house  across  the  Parks.  There  she  sat 
down  in  the  almost  dismantled  drawing-room 
and  thought  of  Dick  in  his  blindness,  useless  till 
the  end  of  life,  and  of  herself  in  her  own  eyes. 
Behind  the  sorrow,  the  shame,  and  the  humilia- 
tion, lay  fear  of  the  cold  wrath  of  the  red-haired 
girl  when  Maisie  should  return.  Maisie  had 
never  feared  her  companion  before.  Not  until 
she  found  herself  saying,  "  Well,  he  never  asked 
me,"  did  she  realize  her  scorn  of  herself. 

And  that  is  the  end  of  Maisie. 

For  Dick  was  reserved  more  searching  torment 


The  Light  that  Failed  365 

He  could  not  realize  at  first  that  Maisie,  whom  he 
had  ordered  to  go,  had  left  him  without  a  word 
of  farewell.  He  was  savagely  angry  against 
Torpenhow,  who  had  brought  upon  him  this 
humiliation  and  troubled  his  miserable  peace. 
Then  his  dark  hour  came  and  he  was  alone  with 
himself  and  his  desires  to  get  what  help  he  could 
from  the  darkness.  The  queen  could  do  no 
wrong,  but  in  following  the  right,  so  far  as  it 
served  her  work,  she  had  wounded  her  one  subject 
more  than  his  own  brain  would  let  him  know. 

"  It's  all  I  had  and  I've  lost  it,"  he  said,  as  soon 
as  the  misery  permitted  clear  thinking.  "And 
Torp  will  think  that  he  has  been  so  infernally 
clever  that  I  shan't  have  the  heart  to  tell  him. 
I  must  think  this  out  quietly." 

"  Hullo!  "  said  Torpenhow,  entering  the  studio 
after  Dick  had  enjoyed  two  hours  of  thought. 
"  I'm  back.     Are  you  feeling  any  better?" 

"Torp,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  Come 
here."  Dick  coughed  huskily,  wondering,  in- 
deed, what  he  should  say,  and  how  to  say  it  tem- 
perately. 

"What's  the  need  for  saying  anything  ?  Get 
up  and  tramp."  Torpenhow  was  perfectly  sat- 
isfied. 

They  walked  up  and  down  as  of  custom,  Tor- 
penhow's  hand  on  Dick's  shoulder,  and  Dick  bur- 
ied in  his  own  thoughts. 


266  The  Light  that  Failed 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  find  it  all  out ? " 
said  Dick  at  last. 

"You  shouldn't  go  off  your  head  if  you  want 
to  keep  secrets,  Dickie.  It  was  absolutely  im- 
pertinent on  my  part;  but  if  you'd  seen  me  rock- 
eting about  on  a  half-trained  French  troop-horse 
under  a  blazing  sun  you'd  have  laughed.  There 
will  be  a  charivari  in  my  rooms  to-night.  Seven 
other  devils  " — 

"  I  know — the  row  in  the  Southern  Soudan.  I 
surprised  their  councils  the  other  day,  and  it  made 
me  unhappy.  Have  you  fixed  your  flint  to  go  ? 
Who  d'you  work  for?" 

"  'Haven't  signed  any  contracts  yet.  I  wanted 
to  see  how  your  business  would  turn  out." 

"Would  you  have  stayed  with  me,  then,  if — 
things  had  gone  wrong?"  He  put  his  question 
cautiously. 

"  Don't  ask  me  too  much.     I'm  only  a  man." 

"You've  tried  to  be  an  angel  very  success- 
fully." 

"Oh  ye — es!  .  .  .  Well,  do  you  attend  the 
function  to-night  ?  We  shall  be  half  screwed  be- 
fore the  morning.  All  the  men  believe  the  war's 
a  certainty." 

"I  don't  think  I  will,  old  man,  if  it's  all  the 
same  to  you.     I'll  stay  quiet  here." 

"  And  meditate  ?  I  don't  blame  you.  You  de- 
serve a  good  time  if  ever  a  man  did." 


The  Light  that  Failed  267 

That  night  there  was  tumult  on  the  stairs. 
The  correspondents  poured  in  from  theatre,  din- 
ner, and  music-hall  to  Torpenhow's  room  that 
they  might  discuss  their  plan  of  campaign  in  the 
event  of  military  operations  being  a  certainty. 
Torpenhow,  the  Keneu,  and  the  Nilghai  had  bid- 
den all  the  men  they  had  worked  with  to  the 
orgy;  and  Mr.  Beeton,  the  housekeeper,  declared 
that  never  before  in  his  checkered  experience  had 
he  seen  quite  such  a  fancy  lot  of  gentlemen. 
They  waked  the  chambers  with  shoutings  and 
song;  and  the  elder  men  were  quite  as  bad  as  the 
younger.  For  the  chances  of  war  were  in  front 
of  them,  and  all  knew  what  those  meant. 

Sitting  in  his  own  room,  a  little  perplexed  by 
the  noise  across  the  landing,  Dick  suddenly  began 
to  laugh  to  himself. 

"When  one  comes  to  think  of  it  the  situation 
is  intensely  comic.  Maisie's  quite  right — poor 
little  thing.  I  didn't  know  she  could  cry  like  that 
before;  but  now  I  know  what  Torp  thinks,  I'm 
sure  he'd  be  quite  fool  enough  to  stay  at  home 
and  try  to  console  me — if  he  knew.  Besides,  it 
isn't  nice  to  own  that  you've  been  thrown  over 
like  a  broken  chair.  I  must  carry  this  business 
through  alone — as  usual.  If  there  isn't  a  war, 
and  Torp  finds  out,  I  shall  look  foolish,  that's  all. 
If  there  is  a  war  I  mustn't  interfere  with  another 
man's  chances.     Business  is  business,  and  I  want 


268  The  Light  that  Failed 

to  be  alone — I  want  to  be  alone.  What  a  row 
they're  making! " 

Somebody  hammered  at  the  studio  door. 

"Come  out  and  frolic,  Dickie,"  said  the  Nil- 
ghai. 

"I  should  like  to,  but  I  can't.  I'm  not  feeling 
frolicsome." 

"Then  I'll  tell  the  boys  and  they'll  draw  you 
like  a  badger." 

"  Please  not,  old  man.  On  my  word,  I'd  sooner 
be  left  alone  just  now." 

"Very  good.  Can  we  send  anything  in  to 
you  ?  Fizz,  for  instance.  Cassavetti  is  begin- 
ning to  sing  songs  of  the  Sunny  South  already." 

For  one  minute  Dick  considered  the  proposition 
seriously. 

"No,  thanks.     I've  a  headache  already." 

"Virtuous  child.  That's  the  effect  of  emotion 
on  the  young.  All  my  congratulations,  Dick.  I 
also  was  concerned  in  the  conspiracy  for  your 
welfare." 

"Go  to  the  devil  and — oh,  send  Binkie  in 
here." 

The  little  dog  entered  on  elastic  feet,  riotous 
from  having  been  made  much  of  all  the  evening. 
He  had  helped  to  sing  the  choruses;  but  scarcely 
inside  the  studio  he  realized  that  this  was  no  place 
for  tail-wagging,  and  settled  himself  on  Dick's 
lap  till  it  was  bedtime.     Then  he  went  to  bed 


The  Light  that  Failed  269 

with  Dick,  who  counted  every  hour  as  it  struck, 
and  rose  in  the  morning  with  a  painfully  clear 
head  to  receive  Torpenhow's  more  formal  con- 
gratulations and  a  particular  account  of  the  last 
night's  revels. 

"  You  aren't  looking  very  happy  for  a  newly- 
accepted  man,"  said  Torpenhow. 

"  Never  mind  that — it's  my  own  affair,  and  I'm 
all  right.     Do  you  really  go  ?  " 

"Yes.  With  the  old  Central  Southern  as 
usual.  They  wired  and  I  accepted  on  better 
terms  than  before." 

"  When  do  you  start  ?  " 

"The  day  after  to-morrow — for  Brindisi." 

"Thank  God."  Dick  spoke  from  the  bottom 
of  his  heart. 

"  Well,  that's  not  a  pretty  way  of  saying  you're 
glad  to  get  rid  of  me.  But  men  in  your  condition 
are  allowed  to  be  selfish." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that.  Will  you  get  a  hundred 
pounds  cashed  for  me  before  you  leave  ?  " 

"That's  a  slender  amount  for  housekeeping, 
isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  only  for — marriage  expenses." 

Torpenhow  brought  him  the  money,  counted 
it  out  in  fives  and  tens,  and  carefully  put  it  away 
in  the  writing-table. 

"Now  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  listen  to  his 
ravings  about  his  girl  until  I  go.     Heaven  send 


270  The  Light  that  Failed 

us  patience  with  a  man  in  love!"  said  he  to 
himself. 

But  never  a  word  did  Dick  say  of  Maisie  or 
marriage.  He  hung  in  the  doorway  of  Torpen- 
how's  room  when  the  latter  was  packing  and 
asked  innumerable  questions  about  the  coming 
campaign,  till  Torpenhow  began  to  feel  annoyed. 

"You're  a  secretive  animal,  Dickie,  and  you 
consume  your  own  smoke,  don't  you?"  he  said 
on  the  last  evening. 

"1 — I  suppose  so.  By  the  way,  how  long  do 
you  think  this  war  will  last?" 

"Days,  weeks,  or  months.  One  can  never 
tell.     It  may  go  on  for  years." 

"  I  wish  I  were  going." 

"  Good  heavens!  You're  the  most  unaccount- 
able creature!  Hasn't  it  occurred  to  you  that 
you're  going  to  be  married — thanks  to  me?" 

"  Of  course,  yes.  I'm  going  to  be  married — so 
I  am.  Going  to  be  married.  I'm  awfully  grate- 
ful to  you.     Haven't  I  told  you  that  ?  " 

"You  might  be  going  to  be  hanged  by  the 
look  of  you,"  said  Torpenhow. 

And  the  next  day  Torpenhow  bade  him  good- 
bye, and  left  him  to  the  loneliness  he  had  so  much 
desired. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Yet  at  the  last,  ere  our  spearmen  had  found  him 

Yet  at  the  last,  ere  a  sword-thrust  could  save. 
Yet  at  the  last,  with  his  masters  around  him, 

He  of  the  Faith  spoke  as  master  to  slave ; 
Yet  at  the  last,  tho'  the  Kafirs  had  maimed  him, 

Broken  by  bondage  and  wrecked  by  the  reiver, — 
Yet  at  the  last,  tho'  the  darkness  had  claimed  him, 

He  called  upon  Allah  and  died  a  believer. 

— Kizilbashi. 

"Beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Heldar,  but — but  isn't, 
nothin'  going  to  happen  ?"  said  Mr.  Beeton. 

"No!  "  Dick  had  just  waked  to  another  morn- 
ing of  blank  despair  and  his  temper  was  of  the 
shortest. 

"  'Tain't  my  regular  business  o'  course,  sir;  and 
what  I  say  is,  '  Mind  your  own  business  and  let 
other  people  mind  theirs';  but  just  before  Mr. 
Torpenhow  went  away  he  give  me  to  under- 
stand, like,  that  you  might  be  moving  into  a 
house  of  your  own,  so  to  speak — a  sort  of  house 
with  rooms  upstairs  and  downstairs  where  you'd 
be  better  attended  to,  though  I  try  to  act  just  by 
all  our  tenants.    Don't  I  ?  " 

"Ah!    That  must  have  been  a  mad-house.     1 
shan't  trouble  you  to  take  me  there  yet.     Get  ms 
my  breakfast,  please,  and  leave  me  alone." 
271 


X]2  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  done  anything  wrong,  sir, 
but  you  know  I  hope  that  as  far  as  a  man  can  I 
tries  to  do  the  proper  thing  by  all  the  gentlemen 
in  chambers — and  more  particular  those  whose 
lot  is  hard — such  as  you,  for  instance,  Mr.  Heldar. 
You  likes  soft-roe  bloater,  don't  you  ?  Soft-roe 
bloaters  is  scarcer  than  hard-roe,  but  what  I  says 
is,  '  Never  mind  a  little  extra  trouble  so  long  as 
you  gives  satisfaction  to  the  tenants.' " 

Mr.  Beeton  withdrew  and  left  Dick  to  himself. 
Torpenhow  had  been  long  away;  there  was  no 
more  rioting  in  the  chambers,  and  Dick  had  set- 
tled down  to  his  new  life,  which  he  was  weak 
enough  to  consider  nothing  better  than  death. 

It  is  hard  to  live  alone  in  the  dark,  confusing 
the  day  and  night;  dropping  to  sleep  through 
sheer  weariness  at  midday,  and  rising  restless  in 
the  chill  of  the  dawn.  At  first  Dick,  on  his 
awakenings,  would  grope  along  the  corridors  of 
the  chambers  till  he  heard  some  one  snore.  Then 
he  would  know  that  the  day  had  not  yet  come, 
and  return  wearily  to  his  bedroom.  Later  he 
learned  not  to  stir  till  there  was  a  noise  and 
movement  in  the  house  and  Mr.  Beeton  advised 
him  to  get  up.  Once  dressed — and  dressing, 
now  that  Torpenhow  was  away,  was  a  lengthy 
business,  because  collars,  ties,  and  the  like,  hid 
themselves  in  far  corners  of  the  room,  and  search 
meant  head-beating  against  chairs  and  trunks— 


The  Light  that  Failed  273 

once  dressed,  there  was  nothing  whatever  to  do 
except  to  sit  still  and  brood  till  the  three  daily 
meals  came.  Centuries  separated  breakfast  from 
lunch  and  lunch  from  dinner,  and  though  a  man 
prayed  for  hundreds  of  years  that  his  mind  might 
be  taken  from  him,  God  would  never  hear. 
Rather  the  mind  was  quickened  and  the  revolv- 
ing thoughts  ground  against  each  other  as  mill- 
stones grind  when  there  is  no  corn  between;  and 
yet  the  brain  would  not  wear  out  and  give  him 
rest.  It  continued  to  think,  at  length,  with  im- 
agery and  all  manner  of  reminiscences.  It  re- 
called Maisie  and  past  success,  reckless  travels  by 
land  and  sea,  the  glory  of  doing  work  and  feeling 
that  it  was  good,  and  suggested  all  that  might 
have  happened  had  the  eyes  only  been  faithful  to 
their  duty.  When  thinking  ceased  through  sheer 
weariness,  there  poured  into  Dick's  soul  tide  on. 
tide  of  overwhelming,  purposeless  fear — dread 
of  starvation  always,  terror  lest  the  unseen  ceil- 
ing should  crush  down  upon  him,  fear  of  fire  ir. 
the  chambers  and  a  louse's  death  in  red  flame, 
and  agonies  of  fiercer  horror  that  had  nothing  to 
do  with  any  fear  of  death.  Then  Dick  bowed 
his  head,  and  clutching  the  arms  of  his  chair 
fought  with  his  sweating  self  till  the  tinkle  of 
plates  told  him  that  something  to  eat  was  being 
set  before  him. 
Mr.  Beeton  would  bring  the  meal  when  he  had 


274  The  Light  that  Failed 

time  to  spare,  and  Dick  learned  to  hang  upon  his 
speech  which  dealt  with  badly-fitted  gas-plugs, 
waste-pipes  out  of  repair,  little  tricks  for  driving 
picture-nails  into  walls,  and  the  sins  of  the  char- 
woman or  the  housemaids.  In  the  lack  of  better 
things  the  small  gossip  of  a  servant's  hall  be- 
comes immensely  interesting,  and  the  screwing 
of  a  washer  on  a  tap  an  event  to  be  talked  over 
for  days. 

Once  or  twice  a  week,  too,  Mr.  Beeton  would 
take  Dick  out  with  him  when  he  went  market- 
ing in  the  morning  to  haggle  with  tradesmen 
over  fish,  lamp-wicks,  mustard,  tapioca,  and  so 
forth,  while  Dick  rested  his  weight  first  on  one 
foot  and  then  on  the  other  and  played  aimlessly 
with  the  tins  and  string-ball  on  the  counter. 
Then  they  would  perhaps  meet  one  of  Mr.  Bee- 
ton's  friends,  and  Dick,  standing  aside  a  little, 
would  hold  his  peace  till  Mr.  Beeton  was  willing 
to  go  on  again. 

The  life  did  not  increase  his  self-respect.  He 
abandoned  shaving  as  a  dangerous  exercise,  and 
being  shaved  in  a  barber's  shop  meant  exposure 
of  his  infirmity.  He  could  not  see  that  his  clothes 
were  properly  brushed,  and  since  he  had  never 
taken  any  care  of  his  personal  appearance  he  be- 
came every  known  variety  of  sloven.  A  blind 
man  cannot  eat  with  cleanliness  till  he  has  been 
some  months  used  to  the  darkness.    If  lie  de- 


The  Light  that  Failed  275 

mand  attendance  and  grow  angry  at  the  want  of 
it,  he  must  assert  himself  and  stand  upright. 
Then  the  meanest  menial  can  see  that  he  is  blind 
and,  therefore,  of  no  consequence.  A  wise  man 
will  keep  his  eyes  on  the  floor  and  sit  still.  For 
amusement  he  may  pick  coal  lump  by  lump  out 
of  the  scuttle  with  the  tongs  and  pile  it  in  a  little 
heap  in  the  fender,  keeping  count  of  the  lumps, 
which  must  all  be  put  back  again,  one  by  one  and 
very  carefully.  He  may  set  himself  sums  if  he 
cares  to  work  them  out;  he  may  talk  to  himself 
or  to  the  cat  if  she  chooses  to  visit  him ;  and  if 
his  trade  has  been  that  of  an  artist,  he  may  sketch 
in  the  air  with  his  forefinger;  but  that  is  too 
much  like  drawing  a  pig  with  the  eyes  shut.  He 
may  go  to  his  bookshelves  and  count  his  books, 
ranging  them  in  order  of  their  size;  or  to  his 
wardrobe  and  count  his  shirts,  laying  them  in 
piles  of  two  or  three  on  the  bed,  as  they  suffer 
from  frayed  cuffs  or  lost  buttons.  Even  this  en- 
tertainment wearies  after  a  time;  and  all  the 
times  are  very,  very  long. 

Dick  was  allowed  to  sort  a  tool-chest  where 
Mr.  Beeton  kept  hammers,  taps  and  nuts,  lengths 
of  gas-pipes,  oil-bottles  and  string. 

"  If  I  don't  have  everything  just  where  I  know 
where  to  look  for  it,  why,  then,  I  can't  find  any- 
thing when  I  do  want  it.  You've  no  idea,  sir,  the 
amount  of  little  things  that  these  chambers  uses 


i'jS  The  Light  that  Failed 

up,"  said  Mr.  Beeton.  Fumbling  at  the  handle  of 
the  door  as  he  went  out:  "It's  hard  on  you,  sir, 
I  do  think  it's  hard  on  you.  Ain't  you  going  to 
do  anything,  sir?" 

"I'll  pay  my  rent  and  messing.  Isn't  that 
enough?" 

"I  wasn't  doubting  for  a  moment  that  you 
couldn't  pay  your  way,  sir;  but  I  'ave  often  said 
to  my  wife,  '  It's  'ard  on  'im  because  it  isn't  as  if 
he  was  an  old  man,  nor  yet  a  middle-aged  one, 
but  quite  a  young  gentleman.  That's  where  it 
comes  so  'ard.'" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Dick,  absently.  This  par- 
ticular nerve  through  long  battering  had  ceased 
to  feel — much. 

"I  was  thinking,"  continued  Mr.  Beeton,  still 
making  as  if  to  go,  "  that  you  might  like  to  hear 
my  boy  Alf  read  you  the  papers  sometimes  of  an 
evening.  He  do  read  beautiful,  seeing  he's  only 
nine." 

"  I  should  be  very  grateful,"  said  Dick.  "  Only 
let  me  make  it  worth  his  while." 

"We  wasn't  thinking  of  that,  sir,  but  of  course 
it's  in  your  own  'ands;  but  only  to  'ear  Alf  sing 
'  A  Boy's  best  Friend  is  'is  Mother! '    Ah! " 

"  I'll  hear  him  sing  that  too.  Let  him  come  in 
this  evening  with  the  newspapers." 

Alf  was  not  a  nice  child,  being  puffed  up  with 
many  school-board  certificates  for  good  conduct, 


The  Light  that  Failed  177 

and  inordinately  proud  of  his  singing.  Mr.  Bee- 
ton  remained,  beaming,  while  the  child  wailed 
his  way  through  a  song  of  some  eight  eight-line 
verses  in  the  usual  whine  of  the  young  Cockney, 
and,  after  compliments,  left  him  to  read  Dick  the 
foreign  telegrams.  Ten  minutes  later  Alf  re- 
turned to  his  parents  rather  pale  and  scared. 

"'E  said  'e  couldn't  stand  it  no  more,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

"He  never  said  you  read  badly,  Alf?"  Mrs. 
Beeton  spoke. 

"No.  'E  said  I  read  beautiful.  Said 'e  never 
'eard  any  one  read  like  that,  but  'e  said  'e  couldn't 
abide  the  stuff  in  the  papers." 

"P'raps  he's  lost  some  money  in  the  Stocks. 
Were  you  readin'  him  about  Stocks,  Alf  ?  " 

"No;  it  was  all  about  fightin'  out  there  where 
the  soldiers  is  gone — a  great  long  piece  with  all 
the  lines  close  together  and  very  hard  words  in 
it.  'E  give  me  'arf  a  crown  because  I  read  so 
well.  And  'e  says  the  next  time  there's  anything 
'e  wants  read  'e'll  send  for  me." 

"That's  good  hearing,  but  I  do  think  for  all 
the  half-crown — put  it  into  the  kicking-donkey 
money-box,  Alf,  and  let  me  see  you  do  it — he 
might  have  kept  you  longer.  Why,  he  couldn't 
have  begun  to  understand  how  beautiful  you 
read." 

"He's  best  left  to  hisself — gentlemen  always 


278  The  Light  that  Failed 

are  when  they're  downhearted,"  said  Mr.  Bee- 
ton. 

Alf's  rigorously  limited  powers  of  compre- 
hending Torpenhow's  special  correspondence 
had  waked  the  devil  of  unrest  in  Dick.  He 
could  hear,  through  the  boy's  nasal  chant,  the 
camels  grunting  in  the  squares  behind  the  sol- 
diers outside  Suakin;  could  hear  the  men  swear- 
ing and  chaffing  across  the  cooking  pots,  and 
could  smell  the  acrid  wood-smoke  as  it  drifted 
over  the  camp  before  the  wind  of  the  desert. 

That  night  he  prayed  to  God  that  his  mind 
might  be  taken  from  him,  offering  for  proof  that 
he  was  worthy  of  this  favor  the  fact  that  he  had 
not  shot  himself  long  ago.  That  prayer  was  not 
answered,  and  indeed  Dick  knew  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  that  only  a  lingering  sense  of  humor  and 
no  special  virtue  had  kept  him  alive.  Suicide, 
he  had  persuaded  himself,  would  be  a  ludicrous 
insult  to  the  gravity  of  the  situation  as  well  as  a 
weak-kneed  confession  of  fear. 

"Just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,"  he  said  to  the 
cat,  who  had  taken  Binkie's  place  in  his  establish- 
ment, "I  should  like  to  know  how  long  this  is 
going  to  last.  I  can  live  for  a  year  on  the  hun- 
dred pounds  Torp  cashed  for  me.  I  must  have 
two  or  three  thousand  at  least  at  the  Bank — 
twenty  or  thirty  years  more  provided  for,  that  is 
to  say.    Then  I  fall  back  on  my  hundred  and 


The  Light  that  Failed  279 

twenty  a  year  which  will  be  more  by  that  time. 
Let's  consider.  Twenty-five — thirty-five — a  man's 
in  his  prime  then,  they  say — forty-five — a  middle- 
aged  man  just  entering  politics — fifty-five — 'died 
at  the  comparatively  early  age  of  fifty-five,'  ac- 
cording to  the  newspapers.  Bah!  How  these 
Christians  funk  death!  Sixty-five — we're  only 
getting  on  in  years.  Seventy-five  is  just  possible 
though.  Great  Hell,  cat  O!  fifty  years  more  of 
solitary  confinement  in  the  dark!  You'll  die, 
and  Beeton  will  die,  and  Torp  will  die,  and  Mai 
— everybody  else  will  die,  but  I  shall  be  alive 
and  kicking  with  nothing  to  do.  I'm  very  sorry 
for  myself.  I  should  like  some  one  else  to  be 
sorry  for  me.  Evidently  I'm  not  going  mad  be- 
fore I  die,  but  the  pain's  just  as  bad  as  ever. 
Some  day  when  you're  vivisected,  cat  O!  they'll 
tie  you  down  on  a  little  table  and  cut  you  open 
— but  don't  be  afraid;  they'll  take  precious  good 
care  that  you  don't  die.  You'll  live,  and  you'll 
be  very  sorry  then  that  you  weren't  sorry  for  me. 
Perhaps  Torp  will  come  back  or  ...  I  wish 
I  could  go  to  Torp  and  the  Nilghai,  even  though 
I  were  in  their  way." 

Pussy  left  the  room  before  the  speech  was 
ended,  and  Alf,  as  he  entered,  found  Dick  ad- 
dressing the  empty  hearth-rug. 

"There's  a  letter  for  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "Per- 
haps you'd  like  me  to  read  it." 


280  The  Light  that  Failed 

"Lend  it  to  me  for  a  minute  and  I'll  tell  you." 

The  outstretched  hand  shook  just  a  little  and 
the  voice  was  not  over-steady.  It  was  within 
the  limits  of  human  possibility  that — that  was  no 
letter  from  Maisie.  He  knew  the  heft  of  three 
closed  envelopes  only  too  well.  It  was  a  foolish 
hope  that  the  girl  should  write  to  him,  for  he  did 
not  realize  that  there  is  a  wrong  which  admits  of 
no  reparation  though  the  evildoer  may  with  tears 
and  the  heart's  best  love  strive  to  mend  all.  It  is 
best  to  forget  that  wrong  whether  it  be  caused 
or  endured,  since  it  is  as  remediless  as  bad  work 
once  put  forward. 

"Read  it,  then,"  said  Dick,  and  Alf  began 
intoning  according  to  the  rules  of  the  Board 
School  — 

"/  could  have  given  you  love,  I  could  have 
given  you  loyalty,  such  as  you  never  dreamed  of. 
Do  you  suppose  I  cared  what  you  were  ?  But 
you  choose  to  whistle  everything  down  the  wind 
for  nothing.  My  only  excuse  for  you  is  that 
you  are  so  young." 

"That's  all,"  he  said,  returning  the  paper  to  be 
dropped  into  the  fire. 

"What  was  in  the  letter?"  asked  Mrs.  Beeton 
when  Alf  returned. 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  it  was  a  circular  or  a 
tract  about  not  whistlin'  at  everything  when 
vou're  young." 


The  Light  that  Failed  281 

"I  must  have  stepped  on  something  when  I 
was  alive  and  walking  about  and  it  has  bounced 
up  and  hit  me.  God  help  it,  whatever  it  is— un- 
less it  was  all  a  joke.  But  1  don't  know  any  one 
who'd  take  the  trouble  to  play  a  joke  on  me. 
.  .  .  Love  and  loyalty  for  nothing.  It  sounds 
tempting  enough.  I  wonder  whether  I  have  lost 
anything  really?" 

Dick  considered  for  a  long  time  but  could  not 
remember  when  or  how  he  had  put  himself  in  the 
way  of  winning  these  trifles  at  a  woman's  hands. 

Still,  the  letter  as  touching  on  matters  that  he 
preferred  not  to  think  about  stung  him  into  a 
fit  of  frenzy  that  lasted  for  a  day  and  night. 
When  his  heart  was  so  full  of  despair  that  it 
would  hold  no  more,  body  and  soul  together 
seemed  to  be  dropping  without  check  through 
the  darkness.  Then  came  fear  of  darkness  and 
desperate  attempts  to  reach  the  light  again.  But 
there  was  no  light  to  be  reached.  When  that 
agony  had  left  him  sweating  and  breathless,  the 
downward  flight  would  recommence  till  the 
gathering  torture  of  it  spurred  him  into  another 
fight  as  hopeless  as  the  first.  Followed  some  few 
minutes  of  sleep  in  which  he  dreamed  that  he 
saw.  Then  the  procession  of  events  would  re- 
peat itself  till  he  was  utterly  worn  out  and  the 
brain  took  up  its  everlasting  consideration  of 
Maisie  and  might-have-beens. 


282  The  Light  that  Failed 

At  the  end  of  everything  Mr.  Beeton  came  to 
his  room  and  volunteered  to  take  him  out.  "Not 
marketing  this  time,  but  we'll  go  into  the  Parks 
if  you  like." 

M  Be  damned  if  I  do,"  quoth  Dick.  "  Keep  to 
the  streets  and  walk  up  and  down.  I  like  to  hear 
the  people  round  me." 

This  was  not  altogether  true.  The  blind  in  the 
first  stages  of  their  infirmity  dislike  those  who  can 
move  with  a  free  stride  and  unlifted  arms — but 
Dick  had  no  earthly  desire  to  go  to  the  Parks. 
Once  and  only  once  since  Maisie  had  shut  the 
door  he  had  gone  there  under  Alf's  charge.  Alf 
forgot  him  and  fished  for  minnows  in  the  Ser- 
pentine with  some  companions.  After  half  an 
hour's  waiting  Dick,  almost  weeping  with  rage 
and  wrath,  caught  a  passer-by  who  introduced 
him  to  a  friendly  policeman,  who  led  him  to  a 
four-wheeler  opposite  the  Albert  Hall.  He  never 
told  Mr.  Beeton  of  Alf's  forgetfulness,  but  .  .  . 
this  was  not  the  manner  in  which  he  was  used  to 
walk  the  Parks  aforetime. 

"  What  streets  would  you  like  to  walk  down, 
then?"  said  Mr.  Beeton,  sympathetically.  His 
own  ideas  of  a  riotous  holiday  meant  picnicking 
on  the  grass  of  the  Green  Park  with  his  family, 
and  half  a  dozen  paper  bags  full  of  food. 

"Keep  to  the  river,"  said  Dick,  and  they  kept 
to  the  river,  and  the  rush  of  it  was  in  his  ears  till 


The  Light  that  Failed  283 

they  came  to  Blackfriars  Bridge  and  struck 
thence  on  to  the  Waterloo  Road,  Mr.  Beeton  ex- 
plaining the  beauties  of  the  scenery  as  he  went 
on. 

"And  walking  on  the  other  side  of  the  pave- 
ment," said  he,  "unless  I'm  much  mistaken,  is 
the  young  woman  that  used  to  come  to  your 
rooms  to  be  drawed.  I  never  forgets  a  face  and 
I  never  remembers  a  name,  except  paying  tenants, 
o'  course!" 

"Stop  her,"  said  Dick.  "It's  Bessie  Broke. 
Tell  her  I'd  like  to  speak  to  her  again.  Quick, 
man!" 

Mr.  Beeton  crossed  the  road  under  the  noses  of 
the  omnibuses  and  arrested  Bessie  then  on  her 
way  northward.  She  recognized  him  as  the  man 
in  authority  who  used  to  glare  at  her  when  she 
passed  up  Dick's  staircase,  and  her  first  impulse 
was  to  run. 

"Wasn't  you  Mr.  Heldar's  model?"  said  Mr. 
Beeton,  planting  himself  in  front  of  her.  "You 
was.  He's  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  and  he'd 
like  to  see  you." 

"Why?"  said  Bessie,  faintly.  She  remem- 
bered— indeed  had  never  for  long  forgotten — an 
affair  connected  with  a  newly-finished  picture. 

"Because  he  has  asked  me  to  do  so,  and  be- 
cause he's  most  particular  blind." 

"Drunk?" 


2&4  The  Light  that  Failed 

"No.  'Orspital  blind.  He  can't  see.  That's 
him  over  there." 

Dick  was  leaning  against  the  parapet  of  the 
bridge  as  Mr.  Beeton  pointed  him  out — a  stub- 
bearded,  bowed  creature  wearing  a  dirty  magenta 
colored  neckcloth  outside  an  unbrushed  coat 
There  was  nothing  to  fear  from  such  an  one. 
E-  en  if  he  chased  her,  Bessie  thought,  he  could 
not  follow  far.  She  crossed  over  and  Dick's  face 
lighted  up.  It  was  long  since  a  woman  of  any 
kind  had  taken  the  trouble  to  speak  to  him. 

"I  hope  you're  well,  Mr.  Heldar?"  said  Bessie, 
a  little  puzzled.  Mr.  Beeton  stood  by  with  the 
air  of  an  ambassador  and  breathed  responsibly. 

"I'm  very  well  indeed,  and,  by  Jovel  I'm 
glad  to  see — hear  you,  I  mean,  Bess.  You  never 
thought  it  worth  while  to  turn  up  and  see  us 
again  after  you  got  your  money.  I  don't  know 
why  you  should.  Are  you  going  anywhere  in 
particular  just  now  ?  " 

"I  was  going  for  a  walk,"  said  Bessie. 

"Not  the  old  business  ?"  Dick  spoke  under  his 
breath. 

"Lor,  no!  I  paid  my  premium" — Bessie  was 
very  proud  of  that  word — "  for  a  barmaid,  sleep- 
ing in,  and  I'm  at  the  bar  now  quite  respectable. 
Indeed  I  am." 

Mr.  Beeton  had  no  special  reason  to  believe  in 
the  loftiness  of  human  nature.    Therefore  he  dis- 


The  Light  that  Failed  285 

solved  himself  like  a  mist  and  returned  to  his 
gas-plugs  without  a  word  of  apology.  Bessie 
watched  the  flight  with  a  certain  uneasiness;  but 
so  long  as  Dick  appeared  to  be  ignorant  of  the 
harm  that  had  been  done  to  him.     .     .     . 

"It's  hard  work  pulling  the  beer-handles,"  she 
went  on,  "and  they've  got  one  of  them  penny- 
in-the-slot  cash-machines,  so  if  you  get  wrong 
by  a  penny  at  the  end  of  the  day — but  then  1 
don't  believe  the  machinery  is  right.     Do  you?" 

"  I've  only  seen  it  work.    Mr.  Beeton." 

"He's  gone." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  help  me  home, 
then.  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while.  You  see." 
The  sightless  eyes  turned  toward  her  and  Bessie 
saw. 

"It  isn't  taking  you  out  of  your  way?"  he 
said,  hesitatingly.  "  I  can  ask  a  policeman  if  it 
is." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  come  on  at  seven  and  I'm  off  at 
four.    That's  easy  hours." 

" Good  God! — but  I'm  on  all  the  time.  I  wish 
I  had  some  work  to  do  too.  Let's  go  home, 
Bess." 

He  turned  and  cannoned  into  a  man  on  the 
sidewalk,  recoiling  with  an  oath.  Bessie  took 
his  arm  and  said  nothing — as  she  had  said  noth- 
ing when  he  had  ordered  her  to  turn  her  face  a 
little  more  to  the  light.     Thev  walked  for  some 


286  The  Light  that  Failed 

time  in  silence,  the  girl  steering  him  deftly 
through  the  crowd. 

"And  where's — where's  Mr.  Torpenhow?" 
she  inquired  at  last. 

"  He  has  gone  away  to  the  desert." 

"  Where's  that  ?  " 

Dick  pointed  to  the  right.  "East — out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  river,"  said  he.  "Then  west,  then 
south,  and  then  east  again,  all  along  the  under- 
side of  Europe.  Then  south  again,  God  knows 
how  far."  The  explanation  did  not  enlighten 
Bessie  in  the  least,  but  she  held  her  tongue  and 
looked  to  Dick's  path  till  they  came  to  the  cham- 
bers. 

"  We'll  have  tea  and  muffins,"  he  said,  joyously. 
"  I  can't  tell  you,  Bessie,  how  glad  I  am  to  find 
you  again.  What  made  you  go  away  so  sud- 
denly ?" 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  want  me  any  more,"  she 
said,  emboldened  by  his  ignorance. 

"  I  didn't  as  a  matter  of  fact — but  afterward — 
At  any  rate  I'm  glad  you've  come.  You  know 
the  stairs." 

So  Bessie  led  him  home  to  his  own  place — 
there  was  no  one  to  hinder — and  shut  the  door 
of  the  studio. 

"What  a  mess!"  was  her  first  word.  "All 
these  things  haven't  been  looked  after  for  months 
and  months." 


The  Light  that  Failed  287 

"No,  only  weeks,  Bess.  You  can't  expect 
them  to  care." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  expect  them  to  do. 
They  ought  to  know  what  you've  paid  them 
for.  The  dust's  just  awful.  It's  all  over  the 
easel." 

"  I  don't  use  it  much  now." 

"All  over  the  pictures  and  the  floor,  and  all 
over  your  coat.  I'd  like  to  speak  to  them  house- 
maids." 

"  Ring  for  tea,  then."  Dick  felt  his  way  to  the 
one  chair  he  used  by  custom. 

Bessie  saw  the  action  and,  as  far  as  in  her  lay, 
was  touched.  But  there  remained  always  a  keen 
sense  of  new-found  superiority,  and  it  was  in 
her  voice  when  she  spoke. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  like  this  ?"  she  said, 
wrathfully,  as  though  the  blindness  were  some 
fault  of  the  housemaids 

"How?" 

"As  you  are." 

"The  day  after  you  went  away  with  the 
check,  almost  as  soon  as  my  picture  was  fin- 
ished; I  hardly  saw  her  alive." 

"Then  they've  been  cheating  you  ever  since, 
that's  all.     I  know  their  nice  little  ways." 

A  woman  may  love  one  man  and  despise  an- 
other, but  on  general  feminine  principles  she  will 
do  her  best  to  save  the  man  she  despises  from 


388  The  Light  that  Failed 

being  defrauded.  Her  loved  one  can  look  to 
himself,  but  the  other  man,  being  obviously  an 
idiot,  needs  protection. 

"I  don't  think  Mr.  Beeton  cheats  much,"  said 
Dick.  Bessie  was  flouncing  up  and  down  the 
room,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  keen  sense  of 
enjoyment  as  he  heard  the  swish  of  her  skirts 
and  the  light  step  between. 

"Tea and  muffins," she  said, shortly,  when  the 
ring  at  the  bell  was  answered;  " two  teaspoon- 
fuls  and  one  over  for  the  pot.  I  don't  want  the 
old  teapot  that  was  here  when  I  used  to  come. 
It  don't  draw.     Get  another." 

The  housemaid  went  away  scandalized,  and 
Dick  chuckled.  Then  he  began  to  cough  as 
Bessie  banged  up  and  down  the  studio  disturbing 
the  dust. 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do  ?  " 

"  Put  things  straight.  This  is  like  unfurnished 
lodgings.     How  could  you  let  it  go  so  ?" 

"  How  could  I  help  it  ?    Dust  away." 

She  dusted  furiously,  and  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  pother  entered  Mrs.  Beeton.  Her  husband 
on  his  return  had  explained  the  situation,  wind- 
ing up  with  the  peculiarly  felicitous  proverb, 
"Do  unto  others  as  you  would  be  done  by." 
She  had  descended  to  put  into  her  place  the  per- 
son who  demanded  muffins  and  an  uncracked 
teapot  as  though  she  had  a  right  to  both. 


The  Light  that  Failed  289 

"Muffins  ready  yet?"  said  Bess,  still  dusting. 
She  was  no  longer  a  drab  of  the  streets  but  a 
young  lady  who,  thanks  to  Dick's  check,  had 
paid  her  premium  and  was  entitled  to  pull  beer- 
handles  with  the  best.  Being  neatly  dressed  in 
black  she  did  not  hesitate  to  face  Mrs.  Beeton, 
and  there  passed  between  the  two  women  cer- 
tain regards  that  Dick  would  have  appreciated. 
The  situation  adjusted  itself  by  eye.  Bessie  had 
won,  and  Mrs.  Beeton  returned  to  cook  muffins 
and  make  scathing  remarks  about  models, 
hussies,  trollops,  and  the  like,  to  her  husband. 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  got  of  interfering  with 
him,  Liza,"  he  said.  "  Alf,  you  go  along  into  the 
street  to  play.  When  he  isn't  crossed  he's  as 
kindly  as  kind,  but  when  he's  crossed  he's  the 
devil  and  all.  We  took  too  many  little  things 
out  of  his  room  since  he  was  blind  to  be  that 
particular  about  what  he  does.  They  ain't  no 
objects  to  a  blind  man,  of  course,  but  if  it  was  to 
come  into  court  we'd  get  the  sack.  Yes,  I  did 
introduce  him  to  that  girl  because  I'm  a  feelin' 
man  myself." 

"  Much  too  feelin'  1 "  Mrs.  Beeton  slapped  the 
muffins  into  the  dish,  and  thought  of  comely 
housemaids  long  since  dismissed  on  suspicion. 

"I  ain't  ashamed  of  it,  and  it  isn't  for  us  to 
judge  him  hard  so  long  as  he  pays  quiet  and  regu- 
lar as  he  do.    I  know  how  to  manage  young 


290  The  Light  that  Failed 

gentlemen,  you  know  how  to  cook  for  them,  and 
what  I  says  is,  let  each  stick  to  his  own  business 
and  then  there  won't  be  any  trouble.  Take  them 
muffins  down,  Liza,  and  be  sure  you  have  no 
words  with  that  young  woman.  His  lot  is  cruel 
hard,  and  if  he's  crossed  he  do  swear  worse  than 
any  one  I've  ever  served." 

"That's  a  little  better,"  said  Bessie,  sitting 
down  to  the  tea.  "  You  needn't  wait,  thank  you, 
Mrs.  Beeton." 

"I  had  no  intention  of  doing  such,  I  do  assure 
you." 

Bessie  made  no  answer  whatever.  This,  she 
knew,  was  the  way  in  which  real  ladies  routed 
their  foes,  and  when  one  is  a  barmaid  at  a  first- 
class  public-house  one  may  become  a  real  lady  at 
ten  minutes'  notice. 

Her  eyes  fell  on  Dick  opposite  her  and  she  was 
both  shocked  and  displeased.  There  were  drop- 
pings of  food  all  down  the  front  of  his  coat;  the 
mouth  under  the  ragged  ill-grown  beard  drooped 
sullenly;  the  forehead  was  lined  and  contracted; 
and  on  the  lean  temples  the  hair  was  a  dusty  in- 
determinate color  that  might  or  might  not  have 
been  called  grey.  The  utter  misery  and  self- 
abandonment  of  the  man  appealed  to  her,  and  at 
the  bottom  of  her  heart  lay  the  wicked  feeling 
that  he  was  humbled  and  brought  low  who  had 
once  humbled  her. 


The  Light  that  Failed  291 

"Oh!  it  is  good  to  hear  you  moving  about," 
said  Dick,  rubbing  his  hands.  "Tell  us  all  about 
your  bar  successes,  Bessie,  and  the  way  you  live 
now." 

"Never  mind  that.  I'm  quite  respectable,  as 
you'd  see  by  looking  at  me.  You  don't  seem  to 
live  too  well.  What  made  you  go  blind  that 
sudden  ?  Why  isn't  there  any  one  to  look  after 
you?" 

Dick  was  too  thankful  for  the  sound  of  her 
voice  to  resent  the  tone  of  it. 

"I  was  cut  across  the  head  a  long  time  ago, 
and  that  ruined  my  eyes.  I  don't  suppose  any- 
body thinks  it  worth  while  to  look  after  me  any 
more.  Why  should  they? — and  Mr.  Beeton 
really  does  everything  I  want." 

"Don't  you  know  any  gentlemen  and  ladies, 
then,  while  you  was — well  ?  " 

"  A  few,  but  I  don't  care  to  have  them  looking 
at  me." 

"  I  suppose  that's  why  you've  growed  a  beard. 
Take  it  off,  it  don't  become  you." 

"Good  gracious,  child,  do  you  imagine  that  I 
think  of  what  becomes  me  these  days  ?" 

"  You  ought.  Get  that  taken  off  before  I  come 
here  again.     1  suppose  I  can  come,  can't  I  ?  " 

"  I'd  be  only  too  grateful  if  you  did.  I  don't 
think  I  treated  you  very  well  in  the  old  days.  1 
used  to  make  you  angry." 


2()2  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  Very  angry,  you  did." 

"I'm  sorry  for  it,  then.  Come  and  see  me 
when  you  can  and  as  often  as  you  can.  God 
knows,  there  isn't  a  soul  in  the  world  to  take  that 
trouble  except  you  and  Mr.  Beeton." 

"A  lot  of  trouble  he's  taking  and  she  too." 
This  with  a  toss  of  the  head.  "They've  let  you 
do  anyhow  and  they  haven't  done  anything  for 
you.  I've  only  to  look  to  see  that  much.  I'll 
come,  and  I'll  be  glad  to  come,  but  you  must  go 
and  be  shaved,  and  you  must  get  some  other 
clothes — those  ones  aren't  fit  to  be  seen." 

"I  have  heaps  somewhere,"  he  said,  helplessly. 

"  I  know  you  have.  Tell  Mr.  Beeton  to  give 
you  a  new  suit  and  I'll  brush  it  and  keep  it  clean. 
You  may  be  as  blind  as  a  barn-door,  Mr.  Heldar, 
but  it  doesn't  excuse  you  looking  like  a  sweep." 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  sweep,  then  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry  for  you.  I'm  that  sorry  for 
you!"  she  cried,  impulsively,  and  took  Dick's 
hands.  Mechanically,  he  lowered  his  head  as  if 
to  kiss — she  was  the  only  woman  who  had  taken 
pity  on  him,  and  he  was  not  too  proud  for  a  lit- 
tle pity  now.    She  stood  up  to  go. 

"Nothing  o'  that  kind  till  you  look  more  like  a 
gentleman.  It's  quite  easy  when  you  get  shaved 
and  some  clothes." 

He  could  hear  her  drawing  on  her  gloves  and 
rose  to  say  good-bye.     She  passed  behind  him. 


The  Light  that  Failed  293 

kissed  him  audaciously  on  the  back  of  the  neck, 
and  ran  away  as  swiftly  as  on  the  day  when  she 
had  destroyed  the  Melancolia. 

"To  think  of  me  kissing  Mr.  Heldar,"  she  said 
to  herself,  "after  all  he's  done  to  me  and  all! 
Well,  I'm  sorry  for  him,  and  if  he  was  shaved 
he  wouldn't  be  so  bad  to  look  at,  but  .  .  . 
Oh  them  Beetons,  how  shameful  they've  treated 
him!  I  know  Beeton's  wearing  his  shirts  on  his 
back  to-day  just  as  well  as  if  I'd  aired  it.  To- 
morrow, I'll  see  ...  I  wonder  if  he  has 
much  of  his  own.  It  might  be  worth  more  than 
the  bar — I  wouldn't  have  to  do  any  work — and 
just  as  respectable  if  no  one  knew." 

Dick  was  not  grateful  to  Bessie  for  her  parting 
gift.  He  was  acutely  conscious  of  it  in  the  nape 
of  his  neck  throughout  the  night,  but  it  seemed, 
among  very  many  other  things,  to  enforce  the 
wisdom  of  getting  shaved.  He  was  shaved  ac- 
cordingly in  the  morning,  and  felt  the  better  for 
it.  A  fresh  suit  of  clothes,  white  linen,  and  the 
knowledge  that  some  one  in  the  world  said  that 
she  took  an  interest  in  his  personal  appearance, 
made  him  carry  himself  almost  upright;  for  the 
brain  was  relieved  for  a  while  from  thinking  of 
Maisie,  who,  under  other  circumstances,  might 
have  given  that  kiss  and  a  million  others. 

"  Let  us  consider/'  said  he  after  lunch.  "  The 
girl  can't  care,  and  it's  a  toss-up  whether  she 


294  The  Light  that  Failed 

comes  again  or  not,  but  if  money  can  buy  her  to 
look  after  me  she  shall  be  bought.  Nobody  else 
in  the  world  would  take  the  trouble,  and  I  can 
make  it  worth  her  while.  She's  a  child  of  the 
gutter  holding  brevet  rank  as  a  barmaid;  so  she 
shall  have  everything  she  wants  if  she'll  only  come 
and  talk  and  look  after  me."  He  rubbed  his 
newly-shorn  chin  and  began  to  perplex  himself 
with  the  thought  of  her  not  coming.  "  I  suppose 
I  did  look  rather  a  sweep,"  he  went  on.  "I  had 
no  reason  to  look  otherwise.  I  knew  things 
dropped  on  my  clothes,  but  it  didn't  matter.  It 
would  be  cruel  if  she  didn't  come.  She  must. 
Maisie  came  once,  and  that  was  enough  for  her. 
She  was  quite  right.  She  had  something  to  work 
for.  This  creature  has  only  beer-handles  to  pull, 
unless  she  has  deluded  some  young  man  into 
keeping  company  with  her.  Fancy  being  cheated 
for  the  sake  of  a  counter-jumper!  We're  falling 
pretty  low." 

Something  cried  aloud  within  him: — This  will 
hurt  more  than  anything  that  has  gone  before.  It 
will  recall  and  remind  and  suggest  and  tantalize, 
and  in  the  end  drive  you  mad. 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it ! "  Dick  cried,  clenching 
his  hands  despairingly;  "but,  good  heavens!  is 
a  poor  blind  beggar  never  to  get  anything  out  of 
his  life  except  three  meals  a  day  and  a  greasy 
waistcoat  ?    I  wish  she'd  come." 


The  Light  that  Failed  295 

Early  in  the  afternoon  time  she  came,  because 
there  was  no  young  man  in  her  life  just  then,  and 
she  thought  of  material  advantages  which  would 
allow  her  to  be  idle  for  the  rest  of  her  days. 

"I  shouldn't  have  known  you,"  she  said,  ap- 
provingly. "You  look  as  you  used  to  look — a 
gentleman  that  was  proud  of  himself." 

"  Don't  you  think  I  deserve  another  kiss  then  ?  " 
said  Dick,  flushing  a  little. 

"  Maybe — but  you  won't  get  it  yet.  Sit  down 
and  let's  see  what  I  can  do  for  you.  I'm  certain 
sure  Mr.  Beeton  cheats  you,  now  that  you  can't 
go  through  the  housekeeping  books  every  month. 
Isn't  that  true  ?  " 

"  You'd  better  come  and  housekeep  for  me 
then,  Bessie." 

"'Couldn't  do  it  in  these  chambers — you  know 
that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  I  know,  but  we  might  go  somewhere  else,  if 
you  thought  it  worth  your  while." 

"I'd  try  to  look  after  you,  anyhow;  but  I 
shouldn't  care  to  have  to  work  for  both  of  us." 
This  was  tentative. 

Dick  laughed. 

"Do  you  remember  where  I  used  to  keep  my 
bank-book  ?"  said  he.  "  Torp  took  it  to  be  bal- 
anced just  before  he  went  away.     Look  and 

»» 

see. 

"  It  was  generally  under  the  tobacco-jar.    Ah ! " 


296  The  Light  that  Failed 

"Well?" 

"Oh!  Four  thousand  two  hundred  and  ten 
pounds  nine  shillings  and  a  penny!    Oh  my! " 

"  You  can  have  the  penny.  That's  not  bad  for 
one  year's  work.  Is  that  and  a  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds  a  year  good  enough  ?" 

The  idleness  and  the  pretty  clothes  were  almost 
within  her  reach  now,  but  she  must,  by  being 
housewifely,  show  that  she  deserved  them. 

"Yes;  but  you'd  have  to  move,  and  if  we  took 
an  inventory,  I  think  we'd  find  that  Mr.  Beeton 
has  been  prigging  little  things  out  of  the  rooms 
here  and  there.  They  don't  look  as  full  as  they 
used." 

"Never  mind,  we'll  let  him  have  them.  The 
only  thing  I'm  particularly  anxious  to  take  away 
is  that  picture  I  used  you  for — when  you  used  to 
swear  at  me.  We'll  pull  out  of  this  place,  Bess, 
and  get  away  as  far  as  ever  we  can." 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  uneasily. 

"I  don't  know  where  I  can  go  to  getaway 
from  myself,  but  I'll  try,  and  you  shall  have  all 
the  pretty  frocks  that  vou  care  for.  You'll  like 
that.  Give  me  that  kiss  now,  Bess.  Ye  gods! 
it's  good  to  put  one's  arm  round  a  woman's  waist 
again." 

Then  came  the  fulfilment  of  the  prophecy 
within  the  brain.  If  his  arm  were  thus  round 
Maisie's  waist  and  a  kiss  had  just  been  given  and 


The  Light  that  Failed  297 

taken  between  them, — why  then.  ...  He 
pressed  the  girl  more  closely  to  himself  because 
the  pain  whipped  him.  She  was  wondering  how 
to  explain  a  little  accident  to  the  Melancolia.  At 
any  rate,  if  this  man  really  desired  the  solace  of 
her  company — and  certainly  he  would  relapse 
into  his  original  slough  if  she  withdrew  it — he 
would  not  be  more  than  just  a  little  vexed.  It 
would  be  delightful  at  least  to  see  what  would 
happen,  and  by  her  teachings  it  was  good  for  a 
man  to  stand  in  certain  awe  of  his  companion. 

She  laughed  nervously,  and  slipped  out  of  his 
reach. 

"  I  shouldn't  worrit  about  that  picture  if  I  was 
you,"  she  began,  in  the  hope  of  turning  his  at- 
tention. 

"It's  at  the  back  of  all  my  canvases  some- 
where. Find  it,  Bess ;  you  know  it  as  well  as  I 
do." 

"  I  know— but  "— 

"  But  what  ?  You've  wit  enough  to  manage 
the  sale  of  it  to  a  dealer.  Women  haggle  much 
better  than  men.  It  might  be  a  matter  of  eight 
or  nine  hundred  pounds  to — to  us.  I  simply 
didn't  like  to  think  about  it  for  a  long  time.  It 
was  mixed  up  with  my  life  so. — But  we'll  cover 
up  our  tracks  and  get  rid  of  everything,  eh  ? 
Make  a  fresh  start  from  the  beginning,  Bess." 

Then  she  began  to  repent  very  much  indeed, 


298  The  Light  that  Failed 

because  she  knew  the  value  of  money.  Still,  it 
was  probable  that  the  blind  man  was  overesti- 
mating the  value  of  his  work.  Gentlemen,  she 
knew,  were  absurdly  particular  about  their 
things.  She  giggled  as  a  nervous  housemaid 
giggles  when  she  tries  to  explain  the  breakage 
of  a  pipe. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  but  you  remember  I  was — I 
was  angry  with  you  before  Mr.  Torpenhow  went 
away  ?  " 

"  You  were  very  angry,  child ;  and  on  my  word 
I  think  you  had  some  right  to  be." 

"  Then  I — but  aren't  you  sure  Mr.  Torpenhow 
didn't  tell  you?" 

"Tell  me  what?  Good  gracious,  what  are 
you  making  such  a  fuss  about  when  you  might 
just  as  well  be  giving  me  another  kiss." 

He  was  beginning  to  learn,  not  for  the  first 
time  in  his  experience,  that  kissing  is  a  cumula- 
tive poison.  The  more  you  get  of  it,  the  more 
you  want.  Bessie  gave  the  kiss  promptly,  whis- 
pering, as  she  did  so,  "I  was  so  angry  I  rubbed 
out  that  picture  with  the  turpentine.  You  aren't 
angry,  are  you  ?  " 

"What?  Say  that  again.*  The  man's  hand 
had  closed  on  her  wrist. 

"I  rubbed  it  out  with  turps  and  the  knife," 
faltered  Bessie.  "I  thought  you'd  only  have  to 
do  it  over  again.     You  did  do  it  over  again, 


The  Light  that  Failed  299 

didn't  you?  Oh,  let  go  of  my  wrist;  you're 
hurting  me." 

"  Isn't  there  anything  left  of  the  thing  ?  " 

"N'nothing  that  looks  like  anything.  I'm 
sorry — I  didn't  know  you'd  take  on  about  it;  1 
only  meant  to  do  it  in  fun.  You  aren't  going  to 
hit  me?" 

"Hit  you!    No!    Let's  think." 

He  did  not  relax  his  hold  upon  her  wrist  but 
stood  staring  at  the  carpet.  Then  he  shook  his 
head  as  a  young  steer  shakes  it  when  the  lash  of 
the  stock-whip  across  his  nose  warns  him  back 
to  the  path  to  the  shambles  that  he  would  escape. 
For  weeks  he  had  forced  himself  not  to  think  of 
the  Melancolia,  because  she  was  a  part  of  his 
dead  life.  With  Bessie's  return  and  certain  new 
prospects  that  had  developed  themselves  the 
Melancolia — lovelier  in  his  imagination  than  she 
had  ever  been  on  canvas — reappeared.  By  her 
aid  he  might  have  procured  more  money  where- 
with to  amuse  Bess  and  to  forget  Maisie,  as  well 
as  another  taste  of  an  almost  forgotten  success. 
Now,  thanks  to  a  vicious  little  housemaid's  folly, 
there  was  nothing  to  look  for — not  even  the  hope 
that  he  might  some  day  take  an  abiding  interest 
in  the  housemaid.  Worst  of  all,  he  had  been 
made  to  appear  ridiculous  in  Maisie's  eyes.  A 
woman  will  forgive  the  man  who  has  ruined  her 
life's  work  so  long  as  he  gives  her  love:  a  man 


3<x>  The  Light  that  Failed 

may  forgive  those  who  ruin  the  love  of  his  life, 
but  he  will  never  forgive  the  destruction  of  his 
work. 

"  Tck — tck — tck,"  said  Dick,  between  his  teeth, 
and  then  laughed  softly.  "  It's  an  omen,  Bessie, 
and — a  good  many  things  considered,  it  serves 
me  right  for  doing  what  I  have  done.  By  Jove! 
that  accounts  for  Maisie's  running  away.  She 
must  have  thought  me  perfectly  mad — small 
blame  to  her!  The  whole  picture  ruined,  isn't  it 
so  ?    What  made  you  do  it  ?  " 

"Because  I  was  that  angry.  I'm  not  angry 
now — I'm  awful  sorry." 

"I  wonder. — It  doesn't  matter,  anyhow.  I'm 
to  blame  for  making  the  mistake." 

"What  mistake?" 

"  Something  you  wouldn't  understand,  dear. 
Great  heavens!  to  think  that  a  little  piece  of  dirt 
like  you  could  throw  me  out  of  my  stride!" 
Dick  was  talking  to  himself  as  Bessie  tried  to 
shake  off  his  grip  on  her  wrist. 

"  I  ain't  a  piece  of  dirt,  and  you  shouldn't  call 
me  so!  I  did  it  'cause  I  hated  you,  and  I'm  only 
sorry  now  'cause  you're — 'cause  you're" — 

"Exactly — because  I'm  blind.  There's  noth- 
ing like  tact  in  little  things." 

Bessie  began  to  sob.  She  did  not  like  being 
shackled  against  her  will;  she  was  afraid  of  the 
blind  face  and  the  look  upon  it,  and  was  sorry 


The  Light  that  Failed  301 

too  that  her  great  revenge  had  only  made  Dick 
laugh. 

"Don't  cry,"  he  said,  and  took  her  into  his 
arms.     "You  only  did  what  you  thought  right." 

"  I — I  ain't  a  little  piece  of  dirt,  and  if  you  say 
that  I'll  never  come  to  you  again." 

"You  don't  know  what  you've  done  to  me. 
I'm  not  angry — indeed,  I'm  not.  Be  quiet  for  a 
minute." 

Bessie  remained  in  his  arms  shrinking.  Dick's 
first  thought  was  connected  with  Maisie,  and  it 
hurt  him  as  white-hot  iron  hurts  an  open  sore. 

Not  for  nothing  is  a  man  permitted  to  ally  him- 
self to  the  wrong  woman.  The  first  pang — the 
first  sense  of  things  lost  is  but  the  prelude  to  the 
play,  for  the  very  just  Providence  who  delights 
in  causing  pain  has  decreed  that  the  agony  shall 
return,  and  that  in  the  midst  of  keenest  pleasure. 
They  know  this  pain  equally  who  have  forsaken 
or  been  forsaken  by  the  love  of  their  life,  and  in 
their  new  wives'  arms  are  compelled  to  realize  it. 
It  is  better  to  remain  alone  and  suffer  only  the 
misery  of  being  alone,  so  long  as  it  is  possible  to 
find  distraction  in  daily  work.  When  that  re- 
source goes  the  man  is  to  be  pitied  and  left 
alone. 

These  things  and  some  others  Dick  considered 
while  he  was  holding  Bessie  to  his  heart. 

"Though  you  mayn't  know  it,"  he  said,  rais- 


joi  The  Light  that  Failed 

ing  his  head,  "the  Lord  is  a  just  and  a  terrible 
God,  Bess ;  with  a  very  strong  sense  of  humor. 
It  serves  me  right — how  it  serves  me  right!  Torp 
could  understand  it  if  he  were  here;  he  must 
have  suffered  something  at  your  hands,  child,  but 
only  for  a  minute  or  so.  I  saved  him.  Set  that 
to  my  credit,  some  one." 

"Let  me  go,"  said  Bess,  her  face  darkening. 
"Let  me  go." 

"  All  in  good  time.  Did  you  ever  attend  Sun- 
day-school ?  " 

"  Never.  Let  me  go,  I  tell  you;  you're  making 
fun  of  me." 

"Indeed,  I'm  not.  I'm  making  fun  of  myself. 
.  .  .  Thus.  'He  saved  others,  himself  he 
cannot  save.'  It  isn't  exactly-  a  school-board 
'text."  He  released  her  wrist,  but  since  he  was 
between  her  and  the  door,  she  could  not  escape. 
"What  an  enormous  amount  of  mischief  one 
little  woman  can  do!  " 

"I'm  sorry;  I'm  awful  sorry  about  the  pic- 
ture." 

"  I'm  not.  I'm  grateful  to  you  for  spoiling  it. 
.  .  .  What  were  we  talking  about  before  you 
mentioned  the  thing  ?" 

"  About  getting  away — and  money.  Me  and 
you  going  away." 

"Of  course.  We  will  get  away — that  is  to 
say,  I  will." 


The  Light  that  Failed  303 

"And  me?" 

"  You  shall  have  fifty  whole  pounds  for  spoil- 
ing a  picture." 

"  Then  you  won't  ?" — 

"I'm  afraid  not,  dear.  Think  of  fifty  pounds 
for  pretty  things  all  to  yourself." 

"You  said  you  couldn't  do  anything  without 
me. 

"That  was  true  a  little  while  ago.  I'm  better 
now,  thank  you.     Get  me  my  hat." 

"S'pose  I  don't?" 

"Beeton  will,  and  you'll  lose  fifty  pounds. 
That's  all.     Get  it." 

Bessie  cursed  under  her  breath.  She  had  pitied 
the  man  sincerely,  had  kissed  him  with  almost 
equal  sincerity,  for  he  was  not  unhandsome;  it 
pleased  her  to  be  in  a  way  and  for  a  time  his 
protector,  and  above  all  there  were  four  thousand 
pounds  to  be  handled  by  some  one.  Now 
through  a  slip  of  the  tongue  and  a  little  feminine 
desire  to  give  a  little,  not  too  much,  pain  she  had 
lost  the  money,  the  blessed  idleness  and  the 
pretty  things,  the  companionship,  and  the  chance 
of  looking  outwardly  as  respectable  as  a  real 
lady. 

"  Now  fill  me  a  pipe.  Tobacco  doesn't  taste, 
but  it  doesn't  matter,  and  I'll  think  things  out. 
What's  the  day  of  the  week,  Bess  ?  " 

"Tuesday." 


^04  The  Light  that  Failed 

"Then  Thursday's  mail-day.  What  a  fool — 
what  a  blind  fool  I  have  been!  Twenty-two 
pounds  covers  my  passage  home  again.  Allow 
ten  for  additional  expenses.  We  must  put  up  at 
Madame  Binat's  for  old  sake's  sake.  Thirty-two 
pounds  altogether.  Add  a  hundred  for  the  cost 
of  the  last  trip — Gad,  won't  Torp  stare  to  see 
me! — a  hundred  and  thirty-two  leaves  seventy- 
eight  for  baksheesh — I  shall  need  it — and  to  play 
with.  What  are  you  crying  for,  Bess?  It 
wasn't  your  fault,  child;  it  was  mine  altogether. 
Oh,  you  funny  little  opossum,  mop  your  eyes 
and  take  me  out!  I  want  the  pass-book  and  the 
check-book.  Stop  a  minute.  Four  thousand 
pounds  at  four  per  cent. — that's  safe  interest — 
means  a  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  a  year;  one 
hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year — also  safe — 
is  two  eighty,  and  two  hundred  and  eighty 
pounds  added  to  three  hundred  a  year  means 
gilded  luxury  for  a  single  woman.  Bess,  we'll 
go  to  the  bank." 

Richer  by  two  hundred  and  ten  pounds  stored 
in  his  money  belt,  Dick  caused  Bessie,  now  thor- 
oughly bewildered,  to  hurry  from  the  bank  to 
the  P.  and  O.  offices,  where  he  explained  things 
tersely. 

"Port  Said,  single  first;  cabin  as  close  to  the 
baggage-hatch  as  possible.  What  ship's  go- 
ing?" 


The  Light  that  Failed  305 

"The  Colgong,"  said  the  clerk. 

"She's  a  wet  little  hooker.  Is  it  Tilbury  and  a 
tender,  or  Galleons  and  the  docks?" 

"Galleons.     Twelve-forty,  Thursday." 

"Thanks.  Change,  please.  I  can't  see  very 
well — will  you  count  it  into  my  hand?" 

"  If  they  all  took  their  passages  like  that  in- 
stead of  talking  about  their  trunks,,  life  would  be 
worth  something,"  said  the  clerk  to  his  neighbor, 
who  was  trying  to  explain  to  a  harassed  mother 
of  many  that  condensed  milk  is  just  as  good  for 
babes  at  sea  as  daily  dairy.  Being  nineteen  and 
unmarried,  he  spoke  with  conviction. 

"We  are  now,"  quoth  Dick,  as  they  returned 
to  the  studio,  patting  the  place  where  his  money- 
belt  covered  ticket  and  money,  "beyond  the 
reach  of  man,  or  devil,  or  woman — which  is 
much  more  important.  I've  three  little  affairs  to 
carry  through  before  Thursday,  but  I  needn't  ask 
you  to  help,  Bess.  Come  here  on  Thursday 
morning  at  nine.  We'll  breakfast,  and  you  shall 
take  me  down  to  Galleons  Station." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Going  away  of  course.  What  should  I  stay 
for?" 

"  But  you  can't  look  after  yourself?" 

"I  can  do  anything.  I  didn't  realize  it  before, 
but  I  can.  I've  done  a  great  deal  already.  Res- 
olution shall  be  treated  to  one  kiss  if  Bessie 


yo6  The  Light  that  Failed 

doesn't  object."  Strangely  enough,  Bessie  ob- 
jected, and  Dick  laughed.  "I  suppose  you're 
right.  Well,  come  at  nine  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row and  you'll  get  your  money." 

"Shall  I  sure?" 

"I  don't  bilk,  and  you  won't  know  whether  1 
do  or  not  unless  you  come.  Oh,  but  it's  long 
and  long  to  wait!  Good-bye,  Bessie, — send 
Beeton  here  as  you  go  out." 

The  housekeeper  came. 

"What  are  all  the  fittings  of  my  rooms 
worth  ?  "  said  Dick,  imperiously. 

"Tisn't  for  me  to  say,  sir.  Some  things  is 
very  pretty  and  some  is  wore  out  dreadful." 

"  I'm  insured  for  two  hundred  and  seventy." 

"Insurance  policies  is  no  criterion,  though  I 
don't  say  "  — 

"Oh,  damn  your  longwindedness!  You've 
made  your  pickings  out  of  me  and  the  other  ten- 
ants. Why,  you  talked  of  retiring  and  buying  a 
public-house  the  other  day.  Give  a  straight  an- 
swer to  a  straight  question." 

"Fifty,"  said  Mr.  Beeton,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

"Double  it;  or  I'll  break  up  half  my  sticks 
and  burn  the  rest." 

He  felt  his  way  to  a  bookstand  that  supported 
a  pile  of  sketch-books,  and  wrenched  out  one  of 
the  mahogany  pillars. 


The  Light  that  Failed  507 

"That's  sinful,  sir,"  said  the  housekeeper, 
alarmed. 

"It's  my  own.    One  hundred  or "  — 

"One  hundred  it  is.  It'll  cost  me  three  and 
six  to  get  that  there  pilaster  mended." 

"  I  thought  so.  What  an  out  and  out  swindler 
you  must  have  been  to  spring  that  price  at  once!  " 

"I  hope  I've  done  nothing  to  dissatisfy  any  of 
the  tenants,  least  of  all  you,  sir." 

"Never  mind  that.  Get  me  the  money  to- 
morrow, and  see  that  all  my  clothes  are  packed 
in  the  little  brown  bullock-trunk.     I'm  going." 

"  But  the  quarter's  notice  ?" 

"  I'll  pay  forfeit.  Look  after  the  packing  and 
leave  me  alone." 

Mr.  Beeton  discussed  this  new  departure  with  his 
wife,  who  decided  that  Bessie  was  at  the  bottom  of 
it  all.     Her  husband  took  a  more  charitable  view. 

"It's  very  sudden — but  then  he  was  always 
sudden  in  his  ways.     Listen  to  him  now! " 

There  was  a  sound  of  chanting  from  Dick's 
room. 

■  We'll  never  come  back  any  more,  boys, 
We'll  never  come  back  no  more ; 
We'll  go  to  the  deuce  on  any  excuse, 
And  never  come  back  no  more ! 
Oh  say  we're  afloat  or  ashore,  boys, 
Oh  say  we're  afloat  or  ashore ; 
But  we'll  never  come  back  any  more,  boys, 
We'll  never  come  back  no  more  I " 


308  The  Light  that  Failed 

"Mr.  Beeton!  Mr.  Beeton!  Where  the  deuce 
is  my  pistol?" 

"Quick,  he's  going  to  shoot  himself — 'avln' 
gone  mad!"  said  Mrs.  Beeton. 

Mr.  Beeton  addressed  Dick  soothingly,  but  it 
was  some  time  before  the  latter,  threshing  up 
and  down  his  bedroom,  could  realize  the  inten- 
tion of  the  promises  to  "find  everything  to-mor- 
row, sir." 

"Oh,  you  copper-nosed  old  fool — you  im- 
potent Academician!"  he  shouted  at  last.  "Do 
you  suppose  I  want  to  shoot  myself?  Take  the 
pistol  in  your  silly  shaking  hand  then.  If  you 
touch  it,  it  will  go  off,  because  it's  loaded.  It's 
among  my  campaign-kit  somewhere — in  the 
parcel  at  the  bottom  of  the  trunk." 

Long  ago  Dick  had  carefully  possessed  himself 
of  a  forty-pound  weight  field-equipment  con- 
structed by  the  knowledge  of  his  own  experi- 
ence. It  was  this  put-away  treasure  that  he  was 
trying  to  find  and  rehandle.  Mr.  Beeton  whipped 
the  revolver  out  of  its  place  on  the  top  of  the 
package,  and  Dick  drove  his  hand  among  the 
khaki  coat  and  breeches,  the  blue  cloth  leg- 
bands,  and  the  heavy  flannel  shirts  doubled  over 
a  pair  of  swan-neck  spurs.  Under  these  and  the 
water-bottle  lay  a  sketch-book  and  a  pigskin  case 
of  stationery. 

"These  we  don't  want;  you  can  have  them, 


The  Light  that  Failed  309 

Mr.  Beeton.  Everything  else  I'll  keep.  Pack  'em 
on  the  top  right-hand  side  of  my  trunk.  When 
you've  done  that  come  into  the  studio  with  your 
wife.  I  want  you  both.  Wait  a  minute;  get 
me  a  pen  and  a  sheet  of  notepaper." 

It  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  write  when  you  can- 
not see,  and  Dick  had  particular  reasons  for 
wishing  that  his  work  should  be  clear.  So  he 
began,  following  his  right  hand  with  his  left: 
"'The  badness  of  this  writing  is  because  I  am 
blind  and  cannot  see  my  pen.'  H'mph! — Even  a 
lawyer  can't  mistake  that.  It  must  be  signed,  I 
suppose,  but  it  needn't  be  witnessed.  Now  an 
inch  lower — why  did  I  never  learn  to  use  a  type- 
writer ? — '  This  is  the  last  will  and  testament  of 
me,  Richard  Heldar.  I  am  in  sound  bodily  and 
mental  health,  and  there  is  no  previous  will  to 
revoke.' — That's  all  right.  Damn  the  pen! 
Whereabouts  on  the  paper  was  I  ? — '  I  leave 
everything  that  I  possess  in  the  world,  including 
four  thousand  pounds,  and  two  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  twenty-eight  pounds  held  for  me ' 
—  Oh,  I  can't  get  this  straight."  He  tore  off  half 
the  sheet  and  began  again  with  the  caution  about 
the  handwriting.  Then:  " I  leave  all  the  money 
I  possess  in  the  world  to" — here  followed 
Maisie's  name,  and  the  names  of  the  two  banks 
that  held  his  money. 

"It  mayn't  be  quite  regular,  but  no  one  has  a 


310  The  Light  that  Failed 

shadow  of  a  right  to  dispute  it,  and  I've  given 
Maisie's  address.  Come  in,  Mr.  Beeton.  This  is 
my  signature;  you've  seen  it  often  enough  to 
know  it;  I  want  you  and  your  wife  to  witness 
it.  Thanks.  To-morrow  you  must  take  me  to 
the  landlord  and  I'll  pay  forfeit  for  leaving  with- 
out notice,  and  I'll  lodge  this  paper  with  him  in 
case  anything  happens  when  I'm  away.  Now 
we're  going  to  light  up  the  studio  stove.  Stay 
with  me,  and  give  me  my  papers  as  I  want 
em. 

No  one  knows  until  he  has  tried  how  fine  a 
blaze  a  year's  accumulation  of  bills,  letters,  and 
dockets  can  make.  Dick  stuffed  into  the  stove 
every  document  in  the  studio — saving  only  three 
unopened  letters:  destroyed  sketch-books,  rough 
note-books,  new  and  half-finished  canvases  alike. 

"What  a  lot  of  rubbish  a  tenant  gets  about 
him  if  he  stays  long  enough  in  one  place,  to  be 
sure,"  said  Mr.  Beeton  at  last. 

"He  does.  Is  there  anything  more  left?" 
Dick  felt  round  the  walls. 

"Not  a  thing,  and  the  stove's  nigh  red-hot." 

"Excellent,  and  you've  lost  about  a  thousand 
pounds'  worth  of  sketches.  Ho!  ho!  Quite  a 
thousand  pounds'  worth,  if  I  can  remember  what 
I  used  to  be." 

"Yes,  sir,"  politely.  Mr.  Beeton  was  quite 
sure    that  Dick    had  gone  mad,   otherwise  he 


The  Light  that  Failed  311 

would  have  never  parted  with  his  excellent  fur- 
niture for  a  song.  The  canvas  things  took  up 
storage  room  and  were  much  better  out  of  the 
way. 

There  remained  only  to  leave  the  little  will  in 
safe  hands:  that  could  not  be  accomplished  till 
to-morrow.  Dick  groped  about  the  floor  pick- 
ing up  the  last  pieces  of  paper,  assured  himself 
again  and  again  that  there  remained  no  written 
word  or  sign  of  his  past  life  in  drawer  or  desk, 
and  sat  down  before  the  stove  till  the  fire  died 
out  and  the  contracting  iron  cracked  in  the  si- 
lence of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XV 

With  a  heart  of  furious  fancies, 

Whereof  I  am  commander; 
With  a  burning  spear  and  a  horse  of  air. 

To  the  wilderness  I  wander. 
With  a  knight  of  ghosts  and  shadows 

I  summoned  am  to  tourney  — 
Ten  leagues  beyond  the  wide  world's  end, 

Methinks  it  is  no  :ourney. 

— Tom  a*  Bedlam's  Song. 

"  Good-bye,  Bess ;  I  promised  you  fifty.  Here's 
a  hundred — all  that  I  got  for  my  furniture  from 
Beeton.  That  will  keep  you  in  pretty  frocks  for 
some  time.  You've  been  a  good  little  girl,  all 
things  considered,  but  you've  given  me  and  Tor- 
penhow  a  fair  amount  of  trouble." 

"Give  Mr.  Torpenhow  my  love  if  you  see  him, 
won't  you?" 

"  Of  course  I  will,  dear.  Now  take  me  up  the 
gang-plank  and  into  the  cabin.  Once  aboard  the 
lugger  and  the  maid  is — and  I  am  free,  I  mean." 

"Who'll  look  after  you  on  the  ship?" 

"The  head-steward,  if  there's  any  use  in 
money.  The  doctor  when  we  come  to  Port 
Said,  if  1  know  anything  of  P.  and  O.  doctors. 
After  that,  the  Lord  will  provide,  as  He  used  to 
do." 

312 


The  Light  that  Failed  313 

Bess  found  Dick  his  cabin  in  the  wild  turmoil 
of  a  ship  full  of  leavetakers  and  weeping  relatives. 
Then  he  kissed  her,  and  laid  himself  down  in  his 
bunk  until  the  decks  should  be  clear.  He  who 
had  taken  so  long  to  move  about  his  own  dark- 
ened rooms  well  understood  the  geography  of  a 
ship,  and  the  necessity  of  seeing  to  his  own  com- 
forts was  as  wine  to  him.  Before  the  screw  be- 
gan to  thrash  the  ship  along  the  Docks  he  had 
been  introduced  to  the  head-steward,  had  royally 
tipped  him,  secured  a  good  place  at  table,  opened 
out  his  baggage,  and  settled  himself  down  with 
joy  in  the  cabin.  It  was  scarcely  necessary  to 
feel  his  way  as  he  moved  about,  for  he  knew 
everything  so  well.  Then  God  was  very  kind:  a 
deep  sleep  of  weariness  came  upon  him  just  as  he 
would  have  thought  of  Maisie,  and  he  slept  till 
the  steamer  had  cleared  the  mouth  of  the  Thames 
and  was  lifting  to  the  pulse  of  the  Channel. 

The  rattle  of  the  engines,  the  reek  of  oil  and 
paint,  and  a  very  familiar  sound  in  the  next  cabin 
roused  him  to  his  new  inheritance. 

"Oh,  it's  good  to  be  alive  again!"  He 
yawned,  stretched  himself  vigorously,  and  went 
on  deck  to  be  told  that  they  were  almost  abreast 
of  the  lights  of  Brighton.  This  is  no  more  open 
water  than  Trafalgar  Square  is  a  common;  the 
free  levels  begin  at  Ushant;  but  none  the  less 
Dick  could  feel  the  healing  of  the  sea  at  work 


314  The  Light  that  Failed 

upon  him  already.  A  boisterous  little  cross-swell 
swung  the  steamer  disrespectfully  by  the  nose; 
and  one  wave  breaking  far  aft  spattered  the 
quarterdeck  and  the  pile  of  new  deck  chairs.  He 
heard  the  foam  fall  with  the  clash  of  broken  glass, 
was  stung  in  the  face  by  a  cupful,  and  sniffing 
luxuriously,  felt  his  way  to  the  smoking-room 
by  the  wheel.  There  a  strong  breeze  found  him, 
blew  his  cap  off  and  left  him  bareheaded  in 
the  doorway,  and  the  smoking-room  steward, 
understanding  that  he  was  a  voyager  of  experi- 
ence, said  that  the  weather  would  be  stiff  in  the 
chops  off  the  Channel  and  more  than  half  a  gale 
in  the  Bay.  These  things  fell  as  they  were  fore- 
told, and  Dick  enjoyed  himself  to  the  utmost.  It 
is  allowable  and  even  necessary  at  sea  to  lay  firm 
hold  upon  tables,  stanchions,  and  ropes  in  mov- 
ing from  place  to  place.  On  land  the  man  who 
feels  with  his  hands  is  patently  blind.  At  sea 
even  a  blind  man  who  is  not  seasick  can  jest 
with  the  doctor  over  the  weakness  of  his  fellows. 
Dick  told  the  doctor  many  tales — and  these  are 
coin  of  more  value  than  silver  if  properly  handled 
— smoked  with  him  till  unholy  hours  of  the  night, 
and  so  won  his  shortlived  regard  that  he  promised 
Dick  a  few  hours  of  his  time  when  they  came  to 
Port  Said. 

And  the  sea  roared  or  was  still  as  the  winds 
blew,  and  the  engines  sang  their  song  day  and 


The  Light  that  Failed  315 

night,  and  the  sun  grew  stronger  day  by  day,  and 
Tom  the  Lascar  barber  shaved  Dick  of  a  morning 
under  the  opened  hatch-grating  where  the  cool 
winds  blew,  and  the  awnings  were  spread  and 
the  passengers  made  merry,  and  at  last  they  came 
to  Port  Said. 

"Take  me,"  said  Dick  to  the  doctor,  "to 
Madame  Binat's — if  you  know  where  that  is." 

"Whew!"  said  the  doctor,  "I  do.  There's 
not  much  to  choose  between  'em;  but  I  suppose 
you're  aware  that  that's  one  of  the  worst  houses 
in  the  place.  They'll  rob  you  to  begin  with,  and 
knife  you  later." 

"Not  they.  Take  me  there,  and  I  can  look 
after  myself." 

So  he  was  brought  to  Madame  Binat's  and 
filled  his  nostrils  with  the  well-remembered  smell 
of  the  East,  that  runs  without  a  change  from  the 
Canal  head  to  Hong-Kong,  and  his  mouth  with 
the  villainous  Lingua  Franca  of  the  Levant.  The 
heat  smote  him  between  the  shoulder-blades  with 
the  buffet  of  an  old  friend,  his  feet  slipped  on  the 
sand,  and  his  coat-sleeve  was  warm  as  new- 
baked  bread  when  he  lifted  it  to  his  nose. 

Madame  Binat  smiled  with  the  smile  that 
knows  no  astonishment  when  Dick  entered  the 
drinking-shop  which  was  one  source  of  her  gains. 
But  for  a  little  accident  of  complete  darkness  he 
could  hardly  realize  that  he  had  ever  quitted  the 


316  The  Light  that  Failed 

old  life  that  hummed  in  his  ears.  Somebody 
opened  a  bottle  of  peculiarly  strong  Schiedam. 
The  smell  reminded  Dick  of  Monsieur  Binat, 
who,  by  the  way,  had  spoken  of  art  and  degra- 
dation. Binat  was  dead;  Madame  said  as  much 
when  the  doctor  departed,  scandalized,  so  far  as 
a  ship's  doctor  can  be,  at  the  warmth  of  Dick's 
reception.  Dick  was  delighted  at  it.  "They  re- 
member me  here  after  a  year.  They  have  for- 
gotten me  across  the  water  by  this  time.  Ma- 
dame, I  want  a  long  talk  with  you  when  you're 
at  liberty.    It  is  good  to  be  back  again." 

In  the  evening  she  set  an  iron-topped  caf6-table 
out  on  the  sands,  and  Dick  and  she  sat  by  it, 
while  the  house  behind  them  filled  with  riot, 
merriment,  oaths,  and  threats.  The  stars  came 
out  and  the  lights  of  the  shipping  in  the  harbor 
twinkled  by  the  head  of  the  Canal. 

"Yes.  The  war  is  good  for  trade,  my  friend; 
but  what  dost  thou  do  here  ?  We  have  not  for- 
gotten thee." 

"  I  was  over  there  in  England  and  I  went 
blind." 

"But  there  was  the  glory  first.  We  heard  of 
it  here,  even  here — I  and  Binat;  and  thou  hast 
used  the  head  of  Yellow  'Tina — she  is  still  alive 
— so  often  and  so  well  that  'Tina  laughed  when 
the  papers  arrived  by  the  mail-boats.  It  was  al- 
ways something  that  we  here  could  recognize  in 


The  Light  that  Failed  317 

the  paintings.  And  then  there  was  always  the 
glory  and  the  money  for  thee." 

"I  am  not  poor — I  shall  pay  you  well." 

"Not  to  me.  Thou  hast  paid  for  everything." 
Under  her  breath,  "  Mon  Dieu,  to  be  blind  and  so 
young!    What  horror  1" 

Dick  could  not  see  her  face  with  the  pity  on  it, 
or  his  own  with  the  discolored  hair  at  the  tem- 
ples. He  did  not  feel  the  need  of  pity;  he  was 
too  anxious  to  get  to  the  front  once  more,  and 
explained  his  desire. 

"And  where  ?  The  Canal  is  full  of  the  English 
ships.  Sometimes  they  fire  as  they  used  to  do 
when  the  war  was  here — ten  years  ago.  Beyond 
Cairo  there  is  fighting,  but  how  canst  thou  go 
there  without  a  correspondent's  passport  ?  And 
in  the  desert  there  is  always  fighting,  but  that  is 
impossible  also,"  said  she. 

"I  must  go  to  Suakin."  He  knew,  thanks  to 
Alf's  readings,  that  Torpenhow  was  at  work 
with  the  column  that  was  protecting  the  con- 
struction of  the  Suakin-Berber  line.  P.  and  O. 
steamers  do  not  touch  at  that  port,  and,  besides, 
Madame  Binat  knew  everybody  whose  help  or 
advice  was  worth  anything.  They  were  not  re- 
spectable folk,  but  they  could  cause  things  to  be 
accomplished,  which  is  much  more  important 
when  there  is  work  toward. 

"  But  at  Suakin  they  are  always  fighting.    That 


318  The  Light  that  Failed 

desert  breeds  men  always — and  always  more 
men.     And  they  are  so  bold!    Why  to  Suakin  ?" 

"My  friend  is  there." 

"Thy  friencl!  Chtt!  Thy  friend  is  death, 
then." 

Madame  Binat  dropped  a  fat  arm  on  the  table- 
top,  filled  Dick's  glass  anew,  and  looked  at  him 
closely  under  the  stars.  There  was  no  need  that 
he  should  bow  his  head  in  assent  and  say  — 

"No.  He  is  a  man,  but — if  it  should  arrive 
.    .    .    blamest  thou?" 

"I  blame?"  she  laughed,  shrilly.  "Who  am 
I  that  I  should  blame  any  one — except  those  who 
try  to  cheat  me  over  their  consommations.  But 
it  is  very  terrible." 

"I  must  go  to  Suakin.  Think  for  me.  A 
great  deal  has  changed  within  the  year,  and  the 
men  I  knew  are  not  here.  The  Egyptian  light- 
house steamer  goes  down  the  Canal  to  Suakin — 
and  the  post-boats —    But  even  then  " — 

"Do  not  think  any  longer.  /  know,  and  it  is 
for  me  to  think.  Thou  shalt  go — thou  shalt  go 
and  see  thy  friend.  Be  wise.  Sit  here  until  the 
house  is  a  little  quiet — I  must  attend  to  my  guests 
—and  afterward  go  to  bed.  Thou  shalt  go,  in 
truth,  thou  shalt  go." 

"To-morrow?" 

"As  soon  as  may  be."  She  was  talking  as 
though  he  were  a  child. 


The  Light  that  Failed  319 

He  sat  at  the  table  listening  to  the  voices  in  the 
harbor  and  the  streets,  and  wondering  how  soon 
the  end  would  come,  till  Madame  Binat  carried 
him  off  to  bed  and  ordered  him  to  sleep.  The 
house  shouted  and  sang  and  danced  and  reveled, 
Madame  Binat  moving  through  it  with  one  eye 
on  the  liquor  payments  and  the  girls  and  the 
other  on  Dick's  interests.  To  this  latter  end  she 
smiled  upon  scowling  and  furtive  Turkish  officers 
of  fellaheen  regiments,  was  gracious  to  Cypriote 
commissariat  underlings,  and  more  than  kind  to 
camel  agents  of  no  nationality  whatever. 

In  the  early  morning,  being  then  appropriately 
dressed  in  a  flaming  red  silk  ball-dress,  with  a 
front  of  tarnished  gold  embroidery  and  a  neck- 
lace of  plate-glass  diamonds,  she  made  chocolate 
and  carried  it  in  to  Dick. 

"It  is  only  I,  and  I  am  of  discreet  age,  eh ? 
Drink  and  eat  the  roll  too.  Thus  in  France  moth- 
ers bring  their  sons,  when  those  behave  wisely, 
the  morning  chocolate."  She  sat  down  on  the 
side  of  the  bed  whispering  : 

"  It  is  all  arranged.  Thou  wilt  go  by  the  light- 
house boat.  That  is  a  bribe  of  ten  pounds  Eng- 
lish. The  captain  is  never  paid  by  the  Govern- 
ment. The  boat  comes  to  Suakin  in  four  days. 
There  will  go  with  thee  George,  a  Greek  mule- 
teer. Another  bribe  of  ten  pounds.  I  will  pay ; 
they  must  not  know  of  thy  money.     George  will 


320  The  Light  that  Failed 

go  with  thee  as  far  as  he  goes  with  his  mules. 
Then  he  comes  back  to  me,  for  his  well-beloved 
is  here,  and  if  I  do  not  receive  a  telegram  from 
Suakin  saying  that  thou  art  well,  the  girl  answers 
for  George." 

"  Thank  you."  He  reached  out  sleepily  for  the 
cup.     ''You  are  much  too  kind,  Madame." 

"If  there  were  anything  that  I  might  do  I 
would  say,  stay  here  and  be  wise;  but  I  do  not 
think  that  would  be  best  for  thee."  She  looked 
at  her  liquor-stained  dress  with  a  sad  smile. 
"Nay,  thou  shalt  go,  in  truth,  thou  shalt  go.  It 
is  best  so.     My  boy,  it  is  best  so." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  Dick  between  the  eyes. 
"That  is  for  good-morning,"  she  said,  going 
away.  "When  thou  art  dressed  we  will  speak 
to  George  and  make  everything  ready.  But  first 
we  must  open  the  little  trunk.  Give  me  the 
keys." 

"The  amount  of  kissing  lately  has  been  simply 
scandalous.  I  shall  expect  Torp  to  kiss  me  next. 
He  is  more  likely  to  swear  at  me  for  getting  in  his 
way,  though.  Well,  it  won't  last  long — Ohe, 
Madame,  help  me  to  my  toilette  of  the  guillotine! 
There  will  be  no  chance  of  dressing  properly  out 
yonder." 

He  was  rummaging  among  his  new  campaign 
kit,  and  roweling  his  hands  with  the  spurs. 
There  are  two  ways  of  wearing  well-oiled  ankle- 


The  Light  that  Failed  321 

jacks,  spotless  blue  leg-bands,  khaki  coat  and 
breeches,  and  a  perfectly  pipeclayed  helmet.  The 
right  way  is  the  way  of  the  untired  man,  master 
of  himself,  setting  out  upon  an  expedition,  well 
pleased. 

"Everything  must  be  very  correct,"  Dick  ex- 
plained. "It  will  become  dirty  afterward,  but 
now  it  is  good  to  feel  well  dressed.  Is  every- 
thing as  it  should  be  ?  " 

He  patted  the  revolver  neatly  hidden  under  the 
fulness  of  the  blouse  on  the  right  hip  and  fin- 
gered his  collar. 

"I  can  do  no  more,"  Madame  said,  between 
laughing  and  crying.  "Look  at  thyself — but  I 
forgot." 

"I  am  very  content."  He  stroked  the  crease- 
less  spirals  of  his  leggings.  "  Now  let  us  go  and 
see  the  captain  and  George  and  the  lighthouse 
boat.     Be  quick,  Madame." 

"  But  thou  canst  not  be  seen  by  the  harbor 
walking  with  me  in  the  daylight.  Figure  to  your- 
self if  some  English  ladies  " — 

"There  are  no  English  ladies;  and  if  there  are, 
1  have  forgotten  them.     Take  me  there." 

In  spite  of  his  burning  impatience  it  was  nearly 
evening  ere  the  lighthouse  boat  began  to  move. 
Madame  had  said  a  great  deal  both  to  George  and 
the  captain  touching  the  arrangements  that  were 
to  be  made  for  Dick's  benefit.     Very  few  men 


322  The  Light  that  Failed 

who  had  the  honor  of  her  acquaintance  cared  to 
disregard  Madame's  advice.  That  sort  of  con- 
tempt might  end  in  being  knifed  by  a  stranger  in 
a  gambling  hell  upon  surprisingly  short  provoca- 
tion. 

For  six  days — two  of  them  were  wasted  in  the 
crowded  Canal — the  little  steamer  worked  her 
way  to  Suakin,  where  she  was  to  pick  up  the 
superintendent  of  lighthouses;  and  Dick  made 
it  his  business  to  propitiate  George,  who  was  dis- 
tracted with  fears  for  the  safety  of  his  light-of- 
love  and  half  inclined  to  make  Dick  responsible 
for  his  own  discomfort.  When  they  arrived 
George  took  him  under  his  wing,  and  together 
they  entered  the  red-hot  seaport,  encumbered 
with  the  material  and  wastage  of  the  Suakin- 
Berber  line,  from  locomotives  in  disconsolate 
fragments  to  mounds  of  chairs  and  pot-sleepers. 

"  If  you  keep  with  me,"  said  George,  "  nobody 
will  ask  for  passports  or  what  you  do.  They  are 
all  very  busy." 

"Yes;  but  I  should  like  to  hear  some  of  the 
Englishmen  talk.  They  might  remember  me.  I 
was  known  here  a  long  time  ago — when  I  was 
someone  indeed." 

"A  long  time  ago  is  a  very  long  time  ago  here. 
The  graveyards  are  full.  Now  listen.  This  new 
railway  runs  out  so  far  as  Tanai-el-Hassan — that 
is  seven  miles.     Then  there  is  a  camp.     They  say 


The  Light  that  Failed  }2$ 

that  beyond  Tanai-el-Hassan  the  English  troops 
go  forward,  and  everything  that  they  require  will 
be  brought  to  them  by  this  line." 

"Ah!  Base  camp.  I  see.  That's  a  better 
business  than  fighting  Fuzzies  in  the  open." 

"For  this  reason  even  the  mules  go  up  in  the 
iron-train." 

"Iron  what?" 

"It  is  all  covered  with  iron,  because  it  is  still 
being  shot  at." 

"An  armored  train.  Better  and  better  1  Go 
on,  faithful  George." 

"And  I  go  up  with  my  mules  to-night.  Only 
those  who  particularly  require  to  go  to  the  camp 
go  out  with  the  train.  They  begin  to  shoot  not 
far  from  the  city." 

"The  dears — they  always  used  to!"  Dick 
snuffed  the  smell  of  parched  dust,  heated  iron, 
and  flaking  paint  with  delight.  Certainly  the  old 
life  was  welcoming  him  back  most  generously. 

"  When  I  have  got  my  mules  together  I  go  up 
to-night,  but  you  must  first  send  a  telegram  to 
Port  Said,  declaring  that  I  have  done  you  no 
harm." 

"Madame  has  you  well  in  hand.  Would  you 
stick  a  knife  into  me  if  you  had  the  chance  ?" 

"  I  have  no  chance,"  said  the  Greek.  "  She  is 
there  with  that  woman." 

"I  see.    It's  a  bad  thing  to  be  divided  between 


324  The  Light  that  Failed 

love  of  woman  and  the  chance  of  loot.  I  sym- 
pathize with  you,  George." 

They  went  to  the  telegraph-office  unquestioned, 
for  all  the  world  was  desperately  busy  and  had 
scarcely  time  to  turn  its  head,  and  Suakin  was 
the  last  place  under  sky  that  would  be  chosen  for 
holiday-ground.  On  their  return  the  voice  of  an 
English  subaltern  asked  Dick  what  he  was  doing. 
The  blue  goggles  were  over  his  eyes  and  he 
walked  with  his  hand  on  George's  elbow  as  he 
replied  — 

"Egyptian  Government — mules.  My  orders 
are  to  give  them  over  to  the  A.  C.  G.  at  Tanai- 
el-Hassan.     'Any  occasion  to  show  my  papers  ?  " 

"Oh,  certainly  not.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'd  no 
right  to  ask,  but  not  seeing  your  face  before  I " — 

"I  go  out  in  the  train  to-night,  I  suppose," 
said  Dick,  boldly.  "  There  will  be  no  difficulty  in 
loading  up  the  mules,  will  there?" 

"  You  can  see  the  horse-platforms  from  here. 
You  must  have  them  loaded  up  early."  The 
young  man  went  away  wondering  what  sort  of 
broken  down  waif  this  might  be  who  talked  like 
a  gentleman  and  consorted  with  Greek  muleteers. 
Dick  felt  unhappy.  To  outface  an  English  officer 
is  no  small  thing,  but  the  bluff  loses  relish  when 
one  plays  it  from  the  utter  dark,  and  stumbles  up 
and  down  rough  ways,  thinking  and  eternally 
thinking  of  what  might  have  been  if  things  had 


The  Light  that  Failed  «5 

fallen  out  otherwise,  and  all  had  been  as  it  was 
not. 

George  shared  his  meal  with  Dick  and  went  off 
to  the  mule-lines.  His  charge  sat  alone  in  a  shed 
with  his  face  in  his  hands.  Before  his  tight-shut 
eyes  danced  the  face  of  Maisie,  laughing,  with 
parted  lips.  There  was  a  great  bustle  and 
clamor  about  him.  He  grew  afraid  and  almost 
called  for  George. 

"I  say,  have  you  got  your  mules  ready?"  It 
was  the  voice  of  the  subaltern  over  his  shoulder. 

"  My  man's  looking  after  them.  The — the  fact 
is  I've  a  touch  of  ophthalmia  and  I  can't  see  very 
well." 

"  By  Jove!  that's  bad.  You  ought  to  lie  up  in 
hospital  for  a  while.  I've  had  a  turn  of  it  myself. 
It's  as  bad  as  being  blind." 

"  So  I  find  it.  When  does  this  armored  train 
go?" 

"  At  six  o'clock.  It  takes  an  hour  to  cover  the 
seven  miles." 

"  Are  the  Fuzzies  on  the  rampage — eh  ?" 

"About  three  nights  a  week.  'Fact  is  I'm  in 
acting  command  of  the  night-train.  It  generally 
runs  back  empty  to  Tanai  for  the  night." 

"  Big  camp  at  Tanai,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Pretty  big.  It  has  to  feed  our  desert-column 
somehow." 

•  is  that  far  off?" 


pb  The  Light  that  Failed 

"Between  thirty  and  forty  miles — in  an  in- 
fernal thirsty  country." 

"Is  the  country  quiet  between  Tanai  and  our 
men?" 

"More  or  less.  I  shouldn't  care  to  cross  it 
alone,  or  with  a  subaltern's  command  for  the 
matter  of  that,  but  the  scouts  get  through  in  some 
extraordinary  fashion." 

"They  always  did." 

"Have  you  been  here  before,  then?" 

"I  was  through  most  of  the  trouble  when  it 
first  broke  out." 

"In  the  service  and  cashiered," was  the  sub- 
altern's first  thought,  so  he  refrained  from  put- 
ting any  questions. 

"There's  your  man  coming  up  with  the  mules. 
It  seems  rather  queer" — 

"That  I  should  be  mule-leading?"  said  Dick. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  so  but  it  is.  Forgive  me 
— it's  beastly  impertinence  I  know,  but  you 
speak  like  a  man  who  has  been  at  a  public  school. 
There's  no  mistaking  the  tone." 

"I  am  a  public  school  man." 

"I  thought  so.  I  say,  I  don't  want  to  hurt 
your  feelings,  but  you're  a  little  down  on  your 
luck,  aren't  you  ?  I  saw  you  sitting  with  your 
head  in  your  hands,  and  that's  why  I  spoke." 

"Thanks.  I  am  about  as  thoroughly  and 
completely  broke  as  a  man  need  be." 


The  Light  that  Failed  327 

"Suppose — I  mean  I'm  a  public  school  man 
myself.  Couldn't  I  perhaps — take  it  as  a  loan  y' 
know  and" — 

' '  You're  much  too  good,  but  on  my  honor  I've 
as  much  money  as  1  want.  ...  I  tell  you 
what  you  could  do  for  me,  though,  and  put  me 
under  an  everlasting  obligation.  Let  me  come 
into  the  bogie  truck  of  the  train.  There  is  a  fore- 
truck,  isn't  there?" 

"  Yes.     How  d'you  know  ?" 

"I've  been  in  an  armored  train  before.  Only 
let  me  see — hear  some  of  the  fun  I  mean,  and  I'll 
be  grateful.  I  go  at  my  own  risk  as  a  non-com- 
batant." 

The  young  man  thought  for  a  minute.  "  All 
right,"  he  said.  "We're  supposed  to  be  an 
empty  train,  and  there's  no  one  to  blow  me  up 
at  the  other  end." 

George  and  a  horde  of  yelling  amateur  assist- 
ants had  loaded  up  the  mules,  and  the  narrow- 
gauge  armored  train,  plated  with  three-eighths 
inch  boiler-plate  till  it  looked  like  one  long  coffin, 
stood  ready  to  start. 

Two  bogie  trucks  running  before  the  loco- 
motive were  completely  covered  in  with  plat- 
ing, except  that  the  leading  one  was  pierced 
in  front  for  the  nozzle  of  a  machine-gun,  and 
the  second  at  either  side  for  lateral  fire.  The 
trucks    together   made   one   long    iron-vaulted 


328  The  Light  that  Failed 

chamber  in  which  a  score  of  artillerymen  were 
rioting. 

"  Whitechapel — last  train!  Ah,  I  see  yer 
kissin'  in  the  first  class  there!"  somebody 
shouted,  just  as  Dick  was  clambering  into  the 
forward  truck. 

"Lordy!  'Ere's  a  real  live  passenger  for  the 
Kew,  Tanai,  Acton,  and  Ealin'  train.  Echo,  sir. 
Speshul  edition!  Star,  sir." — "Shall  I  get  you  a 
foot-warmer?"  said  another. 

"  Thanks.  I'll  pay  my  footing,"  said  Dick,  and 
relations  of  the  most  amicable  were  established 
ere  silence  came  with  the  arrival  of  the  subaltern, 
and  the  train  jolted  out  over  the  rough  track. 

"This  is  an  immense  improvement  on  shoot- 
ing the  unimpressionable  Fuzzy  in  the  open," 
said  Dick,  from  his  place  in  the  corner. 

"Oh,  but  he's  still  unimpressed.  There  he 
goes!"  said  the  subaltern,  as  a  bullet  struck  the 
outside  of  the  truck.  "  We  always  have  at  least 
one  demonstration  against  the  night-train.  Gen- 
erally they  attack  the  rear-truck  where  my  junior 
commands.     He  gets  all  the  fun  of  the  fair." 

"  Not  to-night  though !  Listen!"  said  Dick. 
A  flight  of  heavy-handed  bullets  was  succeeded 
by  yelling  and  snouts.  The  children  of  the  des- 
ert valued  their  nightly  amusement,  and  the 
train  was  an  excellent  mark. 

"Is  it  worth  while  giving  them  half  a  hopper 


The  Light  that  Failed  329 

full  ?  "  the  subaltern  asked  of  the  engine  which 
was  driven  by  a  Lieutenant  of  Sappers. 

"I  should  just  think  so!  This  is  my  section  of 
the  line.  They'll  be  playing  old  Harry  with  my 
permanent  way  if  we  don't  stop  'em." 

" Right  O!" 

"  Hrrmph  /  "  said  the  machine  gun  through  all 
its  five  noses  as  the  subaltern  drew  the  lever 
home.  The  empty  cartridges  clashed  on  the 
floor  and  the  smoke  blew  back  through  the 
truck.  There  was  indiscriminate  firing  at  the 
rear  of  the  train,  a  return  fire  from  the  darkness 
without  and  unlimited  howling.  Dick  stretched 
himself  on  the  floor,  wild  with  delight  at  the 
sounds  and  the  smells. 

"  God  is  very  good — I  never  thought  I'd  hear 
this  again.  Give  'em  hell,  men.  Oh,  give  'em 
hell!"  he  cried. 

The  train  stopped  for  some  obstruction  on  the 
line  ahead  and  a  party  went  out  to  reconnoitre, 
but  came  back  cursing,  for  spades.  The  children 
of  the  desert  had  piled  sand  and  gravel  on  the 
rails,  and  twenty  minutes  were  lost  in  clearing 
it  away.  Then  the  slow  progress  recommenced, 
to  be  varied  with  more  shots,  more  shoutings, 
the  steady  clack  and  kick  of  the  machine  guns, 
and  a  final  difficulty  with  a  half-lifted  rail  ere  the 
train  came  under  the  protection  of  the  roaring 
camp  at  Tanai-el-Hassan. 


3>>  The  Light  that  Failed 

"  Now,  you  see  why  it  takes  an  hour  and  a 
half  to  fetch  her  through,"  said  the  subaltern,  un- 
shipping the  cartridge-hopper  above  his  pet  gun. 

"It  was  a  lark,  though.  I  only  wish  it  had 
lasted  twice  as  long.  How  superb  it  must  have 
looked  from  outside! "  said  Dick,  sighing  regret- 
fully. 

"It  palls  after  the  first  few  nights.  By  the 
way,  when  you've  settled  about  your  mules, 
come  and  see  what  we  can  find  to  eat  in  my 
tent.  I'm  Bennil  of  the  Gunners — in  the  artillery 
lines — and  mind  you  don't  fall  over  my  tent- 
ropes  in  the  dark." 

But  it  was  all  dark  to  Dick.  He  could  only 
smell  the  camels,  the  hay-bales,  the  cooking,  the 
smoky  fires,  and  the  tanned  canvas  of  the  tents 
as  he  stood,  where  he  had  dropped  from  the 
train,  shouting  for  George.  There  was  a  sound 
of  light-hearted  kicking  on  the  iron  skin  of  the 
rear  trucks,  with  squealing  and  grunting.  George 
was  unloading  the  mules. 

The  engine  was  blowing  off  steam  nearly  in 
Dick's  ear;  a  cold  wind  of  the  desert  danced  be- 
tween his  legs;  he  was  hungry,  and  felt  tired 
and  dirty — so  dirty  that  he  tried  to  brush  his 
coat  with  his  hands.  That  was  a  hopeless  job; 
he  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  began  to 
count  over  the  many  times  that  he  had  waited  in 
strange  or  remote  places  for  trains  or  camels, 


The  Light  that  Failed  331 

mules  or  horses,  to  carry  him  to  his  business. 
In  those  days  he  could  see — few  men  more 
clearly — and  the  spectacle  of  an  armed  camp  at 
dinner  under  the  stars  was  an  ever  fresh  pleasure 
to  the  eye.  There  was  color,  light,  and  motion, 
without  which  no  man  has  much  pleasure  in  liv- 
ing. This  night  there  remained  for  him  only 
one  more  journey  through  the'  darkness  that 
never  lifts  to  tell  a  man  how  far  he  has  trav- 
eled. Then  he  would  grip  Torpenhow's  hand 
again — Torpenhow,  who  was  alive  and  strong, 
and  lived  in  the  midst  of  the  action  that  had  once 
made  the  reputation  of  a  man  called  Dick  Heldar: 
not  in  the  least  to  be  confused  with  the  blind, 
bewildered  vagabond  who  seemed  to  answer  to 
the  same  name.  Yes,  he  would  find  Torpenhow, 
and  come  as  near  to  the  old  life  as  might  be. 
Afterward  he  would  forget  everything:  Bessie, 
who  had  wrecked  the  Melancolia  and  so  nearly 
wrecked  his  life;  Beeton,  who  lived  in  a  strange 
unreal  city  full  of  tin-tacks  and  gas-plugs  and 
matters  that  no  men  needed ;  that  irrational  be- 
ing who  had  offered  him  love  and  loyalty  for 
nothing,  but  had  not  signed  her  name;  and  mos( 
of  all  Maisie,  who,  from  her  own  point  of  view 
was  undeniably  right  in  all  she  did,  but  oh,  a 
this  distance,  so  tantalizingly  fair. 

George's  hand  on  his  arm  pulled  him  back  to 
the  situation. 


}}2  The  Light  thai  Failed 

"And  what  now?"  said  George. 

"Oh  yes,  of  course.  What  now?  Take  me 
to  the  camel-men.  Take  me  to  where  the  scouts 
sit  when  they  come  in  from  the  desert.  They 
sit  by  their  camels,  and  the  camels  eat  grain  out 
of  a  black  blanket  held  up  at  the  corners,  and  the 
men  eat  by  their  side  just  like  camels.  Take  me 
there!" 

The  camp  was  rough  and  rutty,  and  Dick 
stumbled  many  times  over  the  stumps  of  scrub. 
The  scouts  were  sitting  by  their  beasts,  as  Dick 
knew  they  would.  The  light  of  the  dung-fires 
flickered  on  their  bearded  faces,  and  the  camels 
bubbled  and  mumbled  beside  them  at  rest.  It 
was  no  part  of  Dick's  policy  to  go  into  the  desert 
with  a  convoy  of  supplies.  That  would  lead  to 
impertinent  questions,  and  since  a  blind  non- 
combatant  is  not  needed  at  the  front,  he  would 
probably  be  forced  to  return  to  Suakin.  He 
must  go  up  alone,  and  go  immediately. 

"Now  for  one  last  bluff — the  biggest  of  all," 
he  said.  "Peace  be  with  you,  brethren!"  The 
watchful  George  steered  him  to  the  circle  of  the 
nearest  fire.  The  heads  of  the  camel-sheiks 
bowed  gravely,  and  the  camels,  scenting  a  Euro- 
pean, looked  sideways  curiously  like  brooding 
hens,  half  ready  to  get  to  their  feet. 

"A  beast  and  a  driver  to  go  to  the  fighting 
line  to-night,"  said  Dick. 


The  Light  that  Failed  }$) 

"A  Mulaid?"  said  a  voice,  scornfully  naming 
the  best  baggage-breed  that  he  knew. 

"A  Bisharin,"  returned  Dick,  with  perfect 
gravity.  "A  Bisharin  without  saddle-galls. 
Therefore  no  charge  of  thine  shock-head." 

Two  or  three  minutes  passed.    Then  — 

"We  be  knee-haltered  for  the  night.  There 
is  no  going  out  from  the  camp." 

"Not  for  money?" 

"H'ml    Ah!    English  money?" 

Another  depressing  interval  of  silence. 

"  How  much  ?" 

"Twenty-five  pounds  English  paid  into  the 
hand  of  the  driver  at  my  journey's  end,  and  as 
much  more  into  the  hand  of  the  camel-sheik 
here,  to  be  paid  when  the  driver  returns." 

This  was  royal  payment,  and  the  sheik,  who 
knew  that  he  would  get  his  commission  on  the 
deposit,  stirred  in  Dick's  behalf. 

"For  scarcely  one  night's  journey — fifty 
pounds.  Land  and  wells  and  good  trees  and 
wives  to  make  a  man  content  for  the  rest  of  his 
days.     Who  speaks?"  said  Dick. 

"I,"  said  a  voice.  "I  will  go — but  there  is  no 
going  from  the  camp." 

"Fool!  I  know  that  a  camel  can  break  his 
knee-halter,  and  the  sentries  do  not  fire  if  one 
goes  in  chase.  Twenty-five  pounds  and  an- 
other twenty-five  pounds.     But  the  beast  must 


334  The  Light  that  Failed 

be  a  good  Bisharin;  I  will  take  no  baggage* 
camel." 

Then  the  bargaining  began,  and  at  the  end  of 
half  an  hour  the  first  deposit  was  paid  over  to 
the  sheik,  who  talked  in  low  tones  to  the  driver. 
Dick  heard  the  latter  say:  "  A  little  way  out  only. 
Any  baggage-beast  will  serve.  Am  I  a  fool  to 
waste  my  cattle  for  a  blind  man  ?  " 

"And  though  I  cannot  see" — Dick  lifted  his 
voice  a  little — "yet  I  carry  that  which  has  six 
eyes,  and  the  driver  will  sit  before  me.  If  we  do 
not  reach  the  English  troops  in  the  dawn  he  will 
be  dead." 

"But  where,  in  God's  name,  are  the  troops?" 

"Unless  thou  knowest  let  another  man  ride. 
Dost  thou  know  ?  Remember  it  will  be  life  or 
death  to  thee." 

"I  know,"  said  the  driver,  sullenly.  "Stand 
back  from  my  beast.     I  am  going  to  slip  him." 

"Not  so  swiftly.  George,  hold  the  camel's 
head  a  moment.  I  want  to  feel  his  cheek."  The 
hands  wandered  over  the  hide  till  they  found  the 
branded  half-circle  that  is  the  mark  of  the  Bish- 
arin, the  light-built  riding-camel.  "That  is  well. 
Cut  this  one  loose.  Remember  no  blessing  of 
God  comes  on  those  who  try  to  cheat  the  blind." 

The  men  chuckled  by  the  fires  at  the  camel- 
driver's  discomfiture.  He  had  intended  to  sub- 
stitute a  slow,  saddle-galled  baggage-colt 


The  Light  that  Failed  335 

"Stand  back!"  one  shouted,  lashing  the  Bish- 
arin  under  the  belly  with  a  quirt.  Dick  obeyed 
as  soon  as  he  felt  the  nose-string  tighten  in  his 
hand,— and  a  cry  went  up,  "Illaha!  Aho!  He 
is  loose." 

With  a  roar  and  a  grunt  the  Bisharin  rose  to 
his  feet  and  plunged  forward  toward  the  desert, 
his  driver  following  with  shouts  and  lamenta- 
tion. George  caught  Dick's  arm  and  hurried  him 
stumbling  and  tripping  past  a  disgusted  sentry 
who  was  used  to  stampeding  camels. 

"  What's  the  row  now  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  Every  stitch  of  my  kit  on  that  blasted  drome- 
dary," Dick  answered,  after  the  manner  of  a 
common  soldier. 

"Go  on,  and  take  care  your  throat's  not  cut 
outside — you  and  your  dromedary's." 

The  outcries  ceased  when  the  camel  had  disap- 
peared behind  a  hillock,  and  his  driver  had  called 
him  back  and  made  him  kneel  down. 

"Mount  first,"  said  Dick.  Then  climbing  into 
the  second  seat  and  gently  screwing  the  pistol 
muzzle  into  the  small  of  his  companion's  back, 
"  Go  on  in  God's  name,  and  swiftly.  Good-bye, 
George.  Remember  me  to  Madame,  and  have  a 
good  time  with  your  girl.  Get  forward,  child  of 
the  Pit!" 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  shut  up  in  a  great 
silence,  hardly  broken  by  the  creaking  of  the 


336  The  Light  that  Failed 

saddle  and  the  soft  pad  of  the  tireless  feet.  Dick 
adjusted  himself  comfortably  to  the  rock  and 
pitch  of  the  pace,  girthed  his  belt  tighter,  and  felt 
the  darkness  slide  past.  For  an  hour  he  was 
conscious  only  of  the  sense  of  rapid  progress. 

"  A  good  camel,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  He  has  never  been  underfed.  He  is  my  own 
and  clean  bred,"  the  driver  replied. 

"Goon." 

His  head  dropped  on  his  chest  and  he  tried  to 
think,  but  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts  was  broken 
because  he  was  very  sleepy.  In  the  half  doze  it 
seemed  that  he  was  learning  a  punishment  hymn 
at  Mrs.  Jennett's.  He  had  committed  some  crime 
as  bad  as  Sabbath-breaking,  and  she  had  locked 
him  up  in  his  bedroom.  But  he  could  never  re- 
peat more  than  the  first  two  lines  of  the  hymn — 

When  Israel  of  the  Lord  beloved 
Out  of  the  land  of  bondage  came. 

He  said  them  over  and  over  thousands  of 
times.  The  driver  turned  in  the  saddle  to  see  if 
there  were  any  chance  of  capturing  the  revolver 
and  ending  the  ride.  Dick  roused,  struck  him 
over  the  head  with  the  butt,  and  stormed  himself 
wide  awake.  Somebody  hidden  in  a  clump  of 
camel-thorn  shouted  as  the  camel  toiled  up  ris- 
ing ground.  A  shot  was  fired,  and  the  silence 
shut  down  again,  bringing  the  desire  to  sleep. 


The  Light  that  Failed  }yj 

Dick  could  think  no  longer.  He  was  too  tired 
and  stiff  and  cramped  to  do  more  than  nod  un- 
easily from  time  to  time,  waking  with  a  start  and 
punching  the  driver  with  the  pistol. 

"Is  there  a  moon  ?"  he  asked,  drowsily. 

"  She  is  near  her  setting." 

"I  wish  that  I  could  see  her.  Halt  the  camel. 
At  least  let  me  hear  the  desert  talk." 

The  man  obeyed.  Out  of  the  utter  stillness 
came  one  breath  of  wind.  It  rattled  the  dead 
leaves  of  a  shrub  some  distance  away  and 
ceased.  A  handful  of  dry  earth  detached  itself 
from  the  edge  of  a  rain  trench  and  crumbled 
softly  to  the  bottom. 

"  Go  on.    The  night  is  very  cold." 

Those  who  have  watched  till  the  morning 
know  how  the  last  hour  before  the  light  length- 
ens itself  into  many  eternities.  It  seemed  to 
Dick  that  he  had  never  since  the  beginning  of 
original  darkness  done  anything  at  all  save  jolt 
through  the  air.  Once  in  a  thousand  years  he 
would  finger  the  nail-heads  on  the  saddle-front 
and  count  them  all  carefully.  Centuries  later 
he  would  shift  his  revolver  from  his  right 
hand  to  his  left  and  allow  the  eased  arm  to 
drop  down  at  his  side.  From  the  safe  distance 
of  London  he  was  watching  himself  thus  em- 
ployed,— watching  critically.  Yet  whenever  he 
put  out  his  hand  to  the  canvas  that  he  might 


3)$  The  Light  that  Failed 

paint  the  tawny  yellow  desert  under  the  glare  of 
the  sinking  moon,  the  black  shadow  of  the  camel 
and  the  two  bowed  figures  atop,  that  hand  held 
a  revolver  and  the  arm  was  numbed  from  wrist 
to  collar-bone.  Moreover,  he  was  in  the  dark, 
and  could  see  no  canvas  of  any  kind  whatever. 

The  driver  grunted,  and  Dick  was  conscious  of 
a  change  in  the  air. 

"  I  smell  the  dawn,"  he  whispered. 

"It  is  here,  and  yonder  are  the  troops.  Have 
I  done  well?" 

The  camel  stretched  out  its  neck  and  roared  as 
there  came  down  wind  the  pungent  reek  of 
camels  in  square. 

"Go  on.    We  must  get  there  swiftly.    Go  on." 

"They  are  moving  in  their  camp.  There  is  so 
much  dust  that  I  cannot  see  what  they  do." 

"  Am  I  in  better  case  ?    Go  forward." 

They  could  hear  the  hum  of  voices  ahead,  the 
howling  and  the  bubbling  of  the  beasts  and  the 
hoarse  cries  of  the  soldiers  girthing  up  for  the 
day.     Two  or  three  shots  were  fired. 

"  Is  that  at  us  ?  Surely  they  can  see  that  I  am 
English,"  Dick  spoke  angrily. 

"Nay,  it  is  from  the  desert,"  the  driver  an- 
swered, cowering  in  his  saddle.  "Go  forward, 
my  child !  Well  it  is  that  the  dawn  did  not  un- 
cover us  an  hour  ago." 

The  camel  headed  straight  for  the  column  and 


The  Light  that  Failed  339 

the  shots  behind  multiplied.  The  children  of  the 
desert  had  arranged  that  most  uncomfortable  of 
surprises,  a  dawn  attack  for  the  English  troops, 
and  were  getting  their  distance  by  snap-shots  at 
the  only  moving  object  without  the  square. 

"What  luck!  What  stupendous  and  imperial 
luck!"  said  Dick.  "It's  'just  before  the  battle, 
mother.'  Oh,  God  has  been  most  good  to  me! 
Only  " — the  agony  of  the  thought  made  him  screw 
up  his  eyes  for  an  instant — "Maisie.    .    .    ." 

"Allahu!  We  are  in,"  said  the  man,  as  he 
drove  into  the  rearguard  and  the  camel  knelt. 

"Who  the  deuce  are  you?  Despatches  or 
what  ?  What's  the  strength  of  the  enemy  behind 
that  ridge  ?  How  did  you  get  through  ?  "  asked 
a  dozen  voices.  For  all  answer  Dick  took  a 
long  breath,  unbuckled  his  belt,  and  shouted 
from  the  saddle  at  the  top  of  a  wearied  and  dusty 
voice,  "Torpenhow!  One,  Torp!  Coo-ee,  Tor- 
pen-how." 

A  bearded  man  raking  in  the  ashes  of  a  fire  for 
a  light  to  his  pipe  moved  very  swiftly  toward 
that  cry,  as  the  rearguard,  facing  about,  began  to 
fire  at  the  puffs  of  smoke  from  the  hillocks 
around.  Gradually  the  scattered  white  cloudlets 
drew  out  into  long  lines  of  banked  white  that 
hung  heavily  in  the  stillness  of  the  dawn  before 
they  turned  over  wave-like  and  glided  into  the 
valleys.    The  soldiers  in  the  square  were  cough- 


340  The  Light  that  Failed 

ing  and  swearing  as  their  own  smoke  obstructed 
their  view,  and  they  edged  forward  to  get  be- 
yond it.  A  wounded  camel  leaped  to  its  feet  and 
roared  aloud,  the  cry  ending  in  a  bubbling  grunt. 
Some  one  had  cut  its  throat  to  prevent  confusion. 
Then  came  the  thick  sob  of  a  man  receiving  his 
death-wound  from  a  bullet;  then  a  yell  of  agony 
and  redoubled  firing. 

There  was  no  time  to  ask  any  questions.     . 

"Get  down,  manl  Get  down  behind  the 
camel!" 

"No.  Put  me,  I  pray,  in  the  forefront  of  the 
battle."  Dick  turned  his  face  to  Torpenhow  and 
raised  his  hand  to  set  his  helmet  straight,  but, 
miscalculating  the  distance,  knocked  it  off.  Tor- 
penhow saw  that  his  hair  was  grey  on  the  tem- 
ples, and  that  his  face  was  the  face  of  an  old 
man. 

* '  Come  down,  you  damned  fool  1  Dickie,  come 
off!" 

And  Dick  came  obediently,  but  as  a  tree  falls, 
pitching  sideways  from  the  Bisharin's  saddle  at 
Torpenhow's  feet.  His  luck  had  held  to  the  last, 
even  to  the  crowning  mercy  of  a  kindly  bullet 
through  his  head. 

Torpenhow  knelt  under  the  lee  of  the  camel, 
with  Dick's  body  in  his  arms. 

THE  END. 


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